


Blind and Blackening in the Moonless Air

by bestworstcase (windrattlestheblinds)



Series: The Ones Who Bloom in the Bitter Snow [3]
Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon), Tangled (2010)
Genre: AU - Canon Divergent, Bitter Snow, Canon Rewrite, Eldritch Fantasy, Gen, Grey and Gray Morality, Saporian!Caine, Saporian!Cass, alternate season 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:02:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 69,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27776566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windrattlestheblinds/pseuds/bestworstcase
Summary: The halcyon celebrations of the Lost Princess’s return lie dead and forgotten. Her usurper uncle sits upon the throne in the rubble of Corona’s capital city; black rocks have sundered the countryside, and the conspiracies of summertime have flowered and borne the poisoned fruit of civil war. Exhausted by the past six months, and with nothing but an ancient book and a cryptic mentor to guide her way, Rapunzel flees Corona, chasing the black rocks east: to Aphelion, where the moonstone lies yearning for the sun.Her path has been laid out, and she knows, now, that there is no turning aside.
Relationships: Cassandra/Caine, Rapunzel/Eugene, unrequited Cassandra/Rapunzel
Series: The Ones Who Bloom in the Bitter Snow [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1721755
Comments: 117
Kudos: 123





	1. Chapter 1: Or Someone That I Used to Be

**Author's Note:**

> _Bitter Snow_ is a Saporian!Cass AU/series rewrite. _Moonless Air_ is the second book in the series; if you’ve read [_Benighted,_](archiveofourown.org/works/23888713) you know what to expect, and if you haven’t read _Benighted_ then you should… go do that first. 
> 
> If you’re new or you missed them the first time around: Murphy/[used_muse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/used_muse) has written several songs (!!) based on _Bitter Snow_ , which you can listen to on her soundcloud [here](https://soundcloud.com/murphytaylorsmith/zitis-prayer), [here](https://soundcloud.com/murphytaylorsmith/our-countys-peace), and [here](https://soundcloud.com/murphytaylorsmith/a-little-more). Be sure to check out the rest of her work too, because it’s all amazing!!
> 
> General CW: injuries, blood, mild gore, and body horror.
> 
>  _Moonless Air_ will update this coming Saturday, December 5, and then weekly over the weekend (so either on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday). 
> 
> Comments are always super appreciated! I hope you enjoy the story! ♥

###  **Chapter 1: Or Someone That I Used to Be**

In springtime the land behind the silo turns wet and soft. She lies on her stomach, tickling the marsh grasses with her breath. Small brown frogs live here, and she mimics them: crouched on all fours, with her belly in the mud, because it is good manners.

When Dad finds her he roars with laughter and scoops her into the air by her elbows. She squeals—

“Śase, Śase, _no!_ I’m being a frog—!”

“Well, you’re a big frog,” he says, swinging her back and forth so her toes whisper through the grass. She giggles, kicking. “And you know what big frogs need?”

“What?”

“Baths before dinner.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

…And at night, when the frogs sing their little croaking symphonies, she curls up warm in bed and quietly hums along…

(“ _Sirin Sirin Sirin_ look what I found!”

The snail curls over the tip of her thumb, sticky. A pretty shell: warm brown flecked yellow in a perfect spiral. It wiggles its eyestalks as she presents it for inspection, proud.)

And _spring,_ again: a soft, grey morning. Mist. A thick green pelt of moss crawls over the fallen henge-stone. She grabs fistfuls of it, poking her tongue between her teeth, and grunts with exertion as she scrambles for the high, broad face of the stone—then slips, and slides back down with a breathless huff.

“Tath help—”

“No, you’ve got to climb yourself,” Tathēdora says primly. “That’s the Cashághē _rule._ ”

“ _Tath!_ ”

Cornaīn dangles over the edge, grinning like a cat. “Come on, Cas. It’s _ea-sy!_ ”

“But you’re _big!_ ” It’s so unfair that she lets go of the moss and _flumps_ down on the grass. Pouting, she tilts her head back so she can peek, upside-down, at Mama and Sirin, who sit on the steps and talk softly about boring, grown-up things…

_–shh, shhh. Just stay quiet, Cas. It’s okay, it’s—_

_Don’t make_

_a sound–_

Twitching, Cassandra opens her eyes.

The green whisper of the safety lamp barely softens the gloomy interior of the _Zampermin’s_ cabin. Her nose is an inch away from the dark bulwark. The ship rocks gently, creaking faint echoes of the frog-song that threaded her dreams.

She exhales shakily, pressing her fingers into the thin mattress.

 _Dreams._ Memories–

Fragments. Dredged out of the depths and settling in her chest like stones. Swallowing hard, Cassandra sits up and leans with her back against the bulwark, eyes shut, knees drawn up to her chest. Soft sleeping sounds fill the cabin: dreaming mumbles, a low snort, the regular drone of Mael’s snores; outside, water slops against the hull. Present things. _Real_ things—

Her shoulder aches. She kneads at it, sighing. The dark behind her eyelids squirms until she lifts her thumb to her lips and bites sharply on the knuckle.

_Ignore it._

A week since the nightmare of Janus Point, the long roots of the yew tree still tangle up her thoughts. Sometimes the shadows of the rigging seem thornier than they should in the cold winter sunlight; yesterday she dug into one of Elis’s buttery jelhiinkas and tasted blood, running hot and thick over her tongue.

Sitheach called it śiransere gháīchath, when they caught her startling at the dark impressions of foliage worming in her periphery a few days ago. Glimpses. Phantasmal afterimages of the _sublime._

“It is,” they added, then, motioning for her to resume her exercises, “not worrisome.”

She snorted, but, obedient, stretched out her arms in front of her while they watched her injured shoulder with the unsettling, _incisive_ interest that always makes her half-wonder whether they’re seeing the bones moving inside her flesh. “Meaning I’m hallucinating,” she drawled, “but that’s fine with you, _doc._ ”

“It is.”

“Great.”

“Lift your arms– no, slowly!—yes; good. Magic has a way of lingering, you see.”

“Right, right. So, when you do your corpses—”

“Colors bleed out,” they hummed. “I taste ash and see a world of dust, clutched in an abyssal cold that has never known heat or light; citadels of bone and… so forth.”

“…Cheery.”

“Cathay for you,” Sitheach said, shrugging. “One grows accustomed to it after a while. _You_ should pay it no mind. Stretch if it becomes a distraction; ground the body to anchor the soul.”

 _Grounding._ She grunts. Wriggling her shoulder-blades into the rough wood of the bulwark does scrape some of the phantasmagoric haze out of her thoughts, at least, if not the crawl of ivy inside her skull or the faint, sticky-sweet taste of honeysuckle coating the roof of her mouth.

Sitheach also prescribed _rest,_ but–

Sobēl snorts and thumps her foot against the laminated veneer separating her bunk from Cassandra’s. Mael mutters in her sleep. The cabin contracts like a muscle: some great wooden heart, knocking against her brain.

Grimacing, Cassandra slithers out of her bunk. Nobody stirs as she opens the locker underneath and kicks her way into socks and then her boots. Still; when she folds her cloak around her shoulders, the thick rustle of wool thunders in her ears.

_Out, outside, get out–_

Her breath comes quick. One brisk walk around the deck, to steady her nerves. To return forgotten things to the graves _where they belong;_ then she’ll sleep.

She thumbs the briar-patch shadows out of her eyes and mounts the ladder to the main deck two steps at a time.

A frigid breeze slaps her upside the head. The tension wound through her shoulders splinters, and a gasp claws itself out of her lungs in a long, vaporous stream. She gulps the cold air and pushes her fingers through her curls, shivering. The waning moon dangles near its zenith. Sparse little snowflakes wheel through the restive night, pricking her cheeks, _grounding_ –

“Late for a stroll, honey.”

_Oh no._

Cassandra shies away, casting a wild, furtive glance across the deserted deck, and a piece of shadow at the base of the foremast chuckles and slouches forward. Moira, _of course;_ her dark eyes glittering as she tugs her scarf down and her crooked smirk slinks free into the moonlight.

“Late to be skulking around,” Cassandra mutters.

“Not skulking; it’s _my_ ship.” Grinning slantwise, Moira slopes away from the mast. Her head tilts to a thoughtful angle, and the sharp set of her expression softens. “Nightmares?”

“…No.”

She doesn’t know what to make of this sweet, almost solicitous tone that has crept into her little private moments since midwinter. Like she stomped onto rotten ice and plunged through, only to find warm, still water where there should have been raging turbulence.

It’s only been a _week._ One filled with skirting pleasantries and careful quiet; she spends hours with Owl and Lance, coaxing Varian out of his hollow silences while Moira busies herself and her crew with preparations for the journey to Aphelion, and all the ugliness of midwinter scabs over, unspoken.

She keeps bracing for the storm to break.

Moira hums. “Shoulder bothering you?”

“No– Moira—”

“Hm?”

Her nerve fails. Again. “When are we leaving?”

“Not long.” She flattens her hand between Cassandra’s shoulders, and turns her around toward the prow with a gentle push. The _Zampermin’s_ abstract figurehead shines with a soft, pearly light that ripples over the golden surface like sunlight refracted through calm water.

And past that, Alcorsīa folds itself up the cratered coastline, its rambling tiers painted in greasy yellow light by thousands of streetlamps. Smoldering tracks of fire mark the serpentine lines of the barricades, and smoke curls against the stars.

“ _How_ long?”

“Tomorrow night,” Moira elaborates, sliding up against the railing. Heat rises off the figurehead in slow coils, softening the wintry air. “Getting restless, are we?”

“Moira–”

She stops again, and this time, the quiet hangs; bobbling, precarious, on the edge of a cliff. Silent dreams well up beneath her tongue, defiant as ever of her efforts to speak of them. They’re not nightmares. Just… memories, or maybe wishful thinking made manifest through dreams.

And what can she say? Speak, and earn herself a little pity, a little more doubt to erode whatever’s left of her soul. Tear open old wounds for both of them, for _what?_

_Don’t be selfish._

“…Are you still mad at me?” she asks, instead, tracing her fingertips over the sinuous lines of copper filigree that bracket the ship’s rail. ”For—”

“Yeah,” Moira says bluntly. Cassandra blinks; Moira slouches, dangling her hands over the black waters of the harbor, and pours out a viscous sigh. “But– _tch._ Could’ve dropped you near Herzingen and said _good luck._ That’s… on me. Not really fair to take it out on you.”

“…But–“

“Cassandra.” Wry humor scratches her name; a lurking punchline, probably at her expense. Callused fingers enfold her wrist, and Moira says, “ _Relax._ No one gets sent to convents on _my_ ship, come on.”

A small, unwilling smile tugs at her mouth. “…Well…”

“But I’ve been meaning to ask,” Moira continues, looking at her. “How you feeling? About… all this.”

“Well– I— you mean the _war?_ ”

“I mean all of it. You, Saporia… the war, sure.”

She groans, slumping, and scowls down the hull. Dreams and glimpses aside; nothing has _changed._ Her fear inhabits her, a thousand worries enfolded and congealing together so fretting about the war blooms into gnawing doubt and withers into sleep fractured by half-forgotten ghosts. A voiceless deluge.

Where to even _begin?_

“Rapunzel still won’t talk to me,” she mutters, finally. Moira makes a low, disgruntled noise, which she ignores. “I don’t… know what to _do;_ I know it’s hard for her–”

“Write a petition,” Moira scoffs. “Royals love that– you know, just crawl in on your knees, grovel…”

“ _Moira_ —”

“Cassandra,” she purrs, “you haven’t done anything _wrong._ ”

“Of course _you_ think that.”

“I mean it.” She grips Cassandra’s wrist harder, her voice sharpening to a fine point. “You try so damned hard to do the right thing; it’s not your fault that’s more complicated than _Sunshine_ likes. Let her sulk.”

 _Sulking’s_ one word for it; _hurting_ another. Cassandra threads her fingers through her curls again, scratching her scalp, and _breathes._ In, out. Slow sips of the bitter air.

She really did _try._

The _Zampermin_ had reached Janus Point just before midnight, and the following hours had run a grueling gauntlet of squabbles and goodbyes and then an uncomfortable round of introductions in the galley. She and Lance had suffered through Sitheach’s prodding examinations of her dislocated shoulder and his cracked rib while Eugene bickered with Moira over sleeping arrangements until Rapunzel settled it by chiming in with brittle cheer that hammocks in the cargo hold sounded like _fun._

So it had been half two when the Coronans retreated to bed at last and the ship tacked south toward Alcorsīa, and Moira had cajoled her into the great cabin for a nightcap that was probably the only reason she’d managed to sleep at all. Cassandra had slumped into her bunk around four o’clock, just after they landed in the choppy waters off the Saporian coast; then dozed in fits until almost noon, when Moira hauled her up from the bog of her fatigue to visit Záthelapa for a lunch soaked in exhausted silence.

In… retrospect, maybe that was an invitation she shouldn’t have accepted. If she’d sought Rapunzel out first…

But cowardice, and the temptation of a quiet meal, and the relief that Moira wasn’t ignoring her after… everything, had all lured her off the ship, and by the time they returned, Rapunzel was awake, too: huddled in a blanket above deck, making miserable stabs at conversation with an indifferent Otter. She greeted them with a flickering glance, betrayal plastered over with that horrible fake grin.

“Can we talk, Raps?” Cassandra asked, with what now feels like a delusional amount of optimism. “…Alone?”

Their conversation ran aground almost at once on the shoals of Rapunzel’s strained insistence that it was all _fine,_ and she wasn’t _angry,_ and she understood _everything,_ and what was there to talk about when _everything!_ Is _fine! Cassandra!!_

Until at last, desperate, Cassandra said, “Raps, it’s _okay_ to feel upset. This is all… I know it’s a _lot,_ and–”

“I’m not upset!!” Rapunzel shoved out a sickly laugh, her gaze skittering across the waterfront and _away_ from Cassandra; she shrilled, “I mean, this is great! Everyone’s back together! And it’s so exciting to meet your new _friends!_ ”

Then she bounced to her feet and left, and spent the next few days dodging Cassandra’s efforts to talk to her again—or even be _near_ her, until Cassandra gave up trying. She can tell when she isn’t wanted.

“ _How,_ ” Cassandra moans, “am I supposed to fix it if she won’t even _look_ at me?”

“Honey, _fascinating_ as all this is—”

“You _asked._ ”

“About _you._ ” Moira settles closer with a glittering smile, pressing her shoulder into Cassandra’s. “Speaking of _talking_ —we could detour through Socona on our way out, you know, if you’d like to… clear the air with Sirin. Just say the word.”

She gulps. Facing her aunt again _now,_ through the mire of accusations and confused shame and this slow-simmering grief–

 _No._ Just thinking of it fills her stomach with nauseous dread.

“We can’t,” Cassandra says, too fast. “Rapunzel doesn’t know—”

“You mean you didn’t _tell her?_ ”

“Well, _no._ Moira– she barely trusts me as it _is._ ”

“Yeah, well, that’s _her_ problem.” Moira pins with a glance, cool and evaluating. “So what _does_ she know?” she asks.

“…I- well– she knows I’m Saporian, obviously—”

“You know what I _mean_.”

“She– knows the… official… story,” she mumbles. Moira’s eyebrows arch in disbelief, and Cassandra cringes. “The– the Coronan version.”

“…You didn’t tell her your parents were innocent.”

“N- no.”

“Or that the Commander kidnapped you?”

“Well– well, no.”

“Cassandra,” Moira says evenly, “ _why?_ ”

Hunching, she glares out across the harbor. The long dark shape of a rat scurries furtively across the waterfront and whips out of sight beneath a stack of crates at the end of the pier. Nothing else moves.

 _Because she’s been through_ enough _without me dragging up things that happened when she was only a few months old. Because she’s my friend and I wish she would just_ trust _–_

_Because I don’t want her her pity._

And because, when she tried to raise the subject of her family, Rapunzel responded with a clipped, “I get it! You told me before. It doesn’t matter,” and the awful truth curdled on her tongue.

“I’m just– not ready,” she mutters.

Moira inhales, sharp, but the scathing remark Cassandra expects never comes; instead, she breathes out a long, “Hell, honey,” and then, softer, says, “I thought that’s what you dragged her off for, the first afternoon.”

“It… sort of was,” she admits, startled into honesty. “I just- stars, I don’t know. I couldn’t.”

She can feel Moira watching her sideways, still; the pirate’s callused thumb traces the underside of her wrist. “You were all ready to storm the palace alone and get yourself hanged just to warn her, a week ago.”

“…So?”

“So I thought,” Moira says, and Cassandra gets the sense that she’s choosing her words with unusual care, “since she meant that much to you, you’d want her to hear it from _you._ ”

“I _do_ — I- I’m just. Waiting for the right time.”

Sighing, Moira says, “Then you need to tell the crew it’s a secret, otherwise—you know how they get. Chatty bunch of gossips. You’re lucky she doesn’t know Saporian.”

Cassandra winces. “Right. Yeah–”

“What makes it so hard for you?”

“…What?”

“It’s just if it were _me_ –”

“Please don’t.”

“…You said… in Herrfeld,” Moira says slowly, “you said some things– I’m… I’d like to understand.”

Curiosity laid out like a snare. Cassandra stares down the gleaming silver wires of _that_ invitation, and then, letting her breath hiss out between her teeth, sets her hand in the trap. “It’s– it’s— I don’t know. In Herzingen– the Separatists, I…”

 _Oh,_ it’s hard to admit. Even now, giving voice to her shifting allegiances makes something _twist_ inside her heart. The wire, cutting flesh. It makes her feel like more of traitor than battling for the constabulary in Socona had, which is _stupid,_ but—

“I used to translate their pamphlets and stuff, for- for the Commander,” she sighs. “No one in the Watch read Saporian, and it made me feel… I don’t know, _helpful._ ” She had wanted so _desperately_ to make herself useful. Prove her worth. Scrub the stain of her parents’ transgressions from her skin. Her stomach churns. “But I never thought– I don’t know _why;_ it’s just they… were criminals, so– so I just never _thought_ —and I’m so- I’m so _mad!_ ”

It rises as if summoned by her strangled cry; a slow, molten rage wells into her throat, bile cut with hot pitch. Suffocating, sickening, fed on the half-truths and convenient lies and the cracks in the facade that her _father_ raised her not to see.

He _knew._

Moira squeezes her wrist, which helps, and Cassandra continues with a shudder, “D- Dad… always said it didn’t _matter._ Who I am, where I– but… I… Moira. I _hated_ them.”

Every time she glimpsed her own reflection. Every scraping, sidelong glance, every hesitation, every shackling doubt; every echoing snap of _for the last time, Cassandra, stop speaking gibberish!_ that followed her out of the orphanage. Shame and disgust nest inside her bones.

All for loyalty Corona bought with a _lie._

_Sap–!_

_(don’t make a sound)_

Her shoulder slump. Moonlight frosts the dark waves rolling against the pier, and a quaking breath curls out of her mouth in feathering silver. “I don’t want– I _won’t_ apologize for who my parents were,” she says bitterly. “Or for Sirin.”

“You don’t need to.”

“With you– but… with Rapunzel? I…”

 _My parents were traitors._ Indicted by her own words; as they held hands in the dark sharing, sharing, and she whispered shameful secrets and laid bare her past like it was _simple._

It had been… not easy, no, but _straightforward_ for Rapunzel to walk away from her tower and strip the title of _mother_ from the dead woman who stole her away and left her with nothing to lose but her nightmares, in the end.

A clean break.

“…She’s not good at ‘complicated,’” Cassandra mutters.

“I’ve noticed.”

“And I’m not _sorry._ ”

“Good.” Moira takes a sidling half-step closer, releasing her wrist to hook an arm around her waist, and leans in for a conspiratorial whisper. “Treason looks good on you.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Not a joke, honey–”

“And… I get it. I _am_ a traitor, and she doesn’t know why, and after what I almost did at Janus Point—”

“—what, risk your life to save her?”

“No, the… other thing.” Grimacing, Cassandra picks at the scabs criss-crossing the back of her left hand. If Eugene hadn’t interrupted when he did… Relief ripples through her her, with the faint aftertaste of regret she still can’t shake. _Zhan Tiri._ Stars. “She’s only been out of that tower for _six months,_ Moira; and I– I’m her friend, but I’m Saporian and my aunt is… who she is, and I’ve done all of _this;_ and I don’t want her getting hurt, but I’m not sorry and—”

“Stop.”

Moira presses her jaw with abrupt insistence, turning her head from the waterfront, and, startled, Cassandra stops. They’re–

They’re _very_ close. She can see the glint of street lamps and stars in Moira’s eyes, feel her _breathing_ with a placid steadiness belying the exasperation scrawled across her face.

“Stop,” Moira says again, “thinking about her, Cassandra. She hasn’t exactly made an effort, has she?” Her lips quirk into a sly smile as Cassandra winces. “No.”

Heat crawls into her cheeks as she tilts her chin away from Moira’s fingers and looks out at the harbor again. “You– you asked about me,” she coughs. Easier than drawing out the guilty stir of indignation in her gut.

_Moira’s right._

“Heh. Third time’s the charm, honey.”

“Right.”

She rubs her fingers over the rail, licks her lips. Worried. She’s _worried,_ and frustrated, and… a confusing swamp of other things she can’t unravel, let alone put to words. Furious and sick with shame. Exhausted.

And dreaming.

“I feel like I keep jumping off cliffs,” she ventures, “and then finding more cliffs at the bottom. It doesn’t… end.”

“Nothing’s over ’til it’s over,” Moira drawls, wry. “But– honey, you know you can _slow down,_ yeah? You don’t need to go.. charging off every cliff in sight. In fact _don’t._ Don’t do that.”

“I mean– well, yeah, but.”

It’s not like she woke up thinking _wow! Today feels like a great day to set my life on fire!_ at the beginning of Tárosh. She made stupid, reckless mistakes; and everything since then has been flailing to avoid smashing her head open at the end of another calamitous fall. She staggers up with blood in her mouth and hears the next avalanche howling behind her. All she’s done is _survive._

“Everything happens so _fast,_ ” she groans, rubbing her eyes. And when she isn’t sprinting for the nearest precipice she’s pacing in cages, stuck in place and sick with _waiting._ “I think I’ll feel better once we’re off.”

“Mm.” Moira strokes her hip absently. “Vardaros should be… interesting. A few errands to run. You can tag along, honey, if you want. It might—” she chuckles “—be dangerous.”

“What kind of errands?”

Moira smirks; it becomes a grin when Cassandra narrows her eyes, suspicious.

“Moira what are you planning–”

“Have lunch with me tomorrow?”

“ _Moira—”_

“Aunt Neasa’s cooking,” she croons, trailing her fingertips slowly up Cassandra’s spine; and then down again. An unfamiliar light kindles in her eyes. “You could get off the ship for a few hours, meet my family… Might do you some good, honey.”

_…Hope._

It’s hope sparking in the depths of her eyes. Cassandra blinks, not sure what to make of _that._ Or the offer, the deflection from… Vardaros, which she tucks away to puzzle over later.

“Why–” Except she can’t find the words, or even the exact question she wants to ask; not in a way that doesn’t sound idiotic, or like she’s fishing for praise.

_Why do you care?_

Gulping, she murmurs, “Sure.”

Moira offers her a languid grin in response. The slow, coaxing motions of her hand peter out in the small of Cassandra’s back, and she glances out over the water; the soft glow of the figurehead casts the pleased twist of her lips in bronze.

_She… likes spending time with me._

Cassandra prods that theory, folding her arms over the railing; happy to let the wind and the sea fill in the silence and smooth over the disorienting muddle of… everything. This.

Funny.

She isn’t what anyone would call _lonely._ Feldspar has been her friend for years—though thinking of him adds another contortion to the fear knotted in her chest—and Rapunzel, certainly, was enthusiastic about her company before it all went wrong; and while Lance never exactly _sought her out,_ he’s the only one of her Herzingen friends who seems easy around her now. Varian had all but glued himself to her side until two days ago, when Mael cracked through his shell by pulling out her schematics of the _Zampermin’s_ folding masts. And the crew, for that matter, had slotted her into their ranks without a missed step.

She knows she’s _likable_ —if maybe an acquired taste.

But Moira… sporadic flashes of vulnerability or no, always seems so _aloof._ Like she kept Cassandra around for entertainment, more than anything. The bumbling fool with no self-preservation and idiotic notions of heroism: poke at her and tease and watch how she flails! It’s _funny._

And sure, Moira has been _kind_ to her, too. She rose beyond Cassandra’s admittedly low expectations when Cassandra came to her with nothing but anger and a plea for help; but that _help_ came threaded with a hint of mockery.

…Then again, she _did_ follow Cassandra into Herzingen.

 _Probably,_ Cassandra reminds herself, stern, _you just remind her of Cornaīn. Don’t read too much into it._

But it’s… a nice thought, even so.

She watches the waves lap the pier for a while, tracking swirls of frost and foam that shine in the moonlight, until curiosity bests her.

“Moira?”

“Hmm?”

“Are we friends? Like… for real.”

This earns her a disbelieving glance, and then a low snort; Moira drawls, “Honey. What part of… _all_ this gave you the impression we _aren’t?_ ”

Cassandra coughs out a laugh, embarrassed. “I just seem to be more trouble than I’m worth.”

“Aw, well.” Moira smirks. “Maybe. But I like trouble.”

## ❦

Warmth spills over her face, and Cassandra breeches the surface of her dreams into muddled confusion. Her mornings aboard the _Zampermin_ follow a simple routine: she gets up with the crew, breakfasts in the galley, then reports to Sitheach for duty—which has, since midwinter, amounted to exercises to strengthen her shoulder, a strict prohibition against lifting heavy objects until the end of the month, and once an acerbic, _put the saber down or so help me I will slit your throat and drag you back from the hound myself–_

Waking with the sun in her eyes is an alarming break from that routine. Disoriented, Cassandra sits up, rubbing sleep from her bleary eyes so she can look around.

_Oh._

She’s alone in the great cabin. Moira’s bunk, built into the bulwark opposite Cassandra’s nest of cushions and borrowed blankets, is empty. Owl sleeps on his perch above the cabinets, his feathers fluffed in dozy contentment. Sunlight sluices through the rosy windows, washing everything in honey-gold.

Right.

They’d talked for a while longer about safe, stupid things: tales of adventures across the continent which Cassandra only half-believed and a stiff confession, followed by her gleeful teasing, that for all the breadth and variety of Moira’s worldly experience, she’s never ridden a horse, nor even close enough to touch one, and _listen, Cassandra, nothing with hooves has any business being that big, it’s unsettling– oh, shut up!_ —until Cassandra had admitted to the sudden clutch of claustrophobia that drove her out of the cabins. Moira, quirking an eyebrow, had replied loftily, “Crash with me tonight, then. Plenty of space.”

So she had, on a pile of cushions and extra blankets. Exhaustion caught up with her as she sank through the pillows and into the quiet blackness of sound sleep.

_Strange night._

Bemused, she kicks away the blankets and rolls to her feet. Voices filter down through the ceiling: unfamiliar, speaking Saporian.

“—such _interesting_ rumors,” says a low, horse voice.

“People do talk,” Sitheach replies, dry as a down.

The hoarse woman chortles nastily. “Oh, there’s always _talk,_ ” she says. “Lot of smoke without much fire—bone-rattlers for you, eh? _hmmpf_ —but this feels different.”

“—Clem—” interjects a second woman, sounding alarmed.

“Not to make accusations,” Clem grumbles. “Just, it’d be good of Śachīco to _answer,_ at least, when Ghéril asks him things– even if it’s to say ‘butt out.’ Everyone’s nervy already without nattering about _you lot_ opening—”

“You think Śachīco answers to _me?_ ”

“I know you’re _chatty_ for a barrow rat—”

Cassandra tugs on her boots with an ear cocked toward the ceiling; Sitheach makes some quiet remark in return, and muffled chuckles drip into the great cabin and pool in the pit of her stomach, acidic.

Growing up in Herzingen gave her an impression of ternary worship as a bygone relic, ground down to isolated splinters and supplanted by the healthier theology of the Sunlit Temple. Not dead, but dying. A historical footnote.

She never imagined… _this._

But now she’s _here,_ and her ignorance draws sharp, scalding lines between her and the others. Despite _everything_ —having leapt from the stilted, polite hostility of Corona and into Saporia’s embrace, she still doesn’t quite _fit._ The chasm claws itself open somewhere behind her lungs, bitter, festering.

“Lady Caine!” Vague familiarity cloaks this voice: an irritating, nasally drawl that stings her out of her thoughts. “The woman of the hour—”

“Andrew,” Moira says, curt. Thumping footsteps; then, “What’ve you got for me?”

Andrew… _Andrew–_

Paper rustles, and Andrew drones something Cassandra misses; recognition skates over the surface of her thoughts. _Andrew!_ —the Separatist with the knife-blade face who helped Sirin capture Rapunzel during the Goodwill Festival three months ago.

_Great. Fantastic! What’s next—Sugracha crawling in to see us off? Knowing my luck she’ll turn out to be my great-great-great-whatever-grandmother or—_

Swearing under her breath, Cassandra rifles her hand through her curls. She aims for order but lands—as a quick glance in the mirror hung by the door proves—on _harried._ Her hair’s a mess and sleeping in her shirt rumpled it beyond what a few frantic swipes of her hands can repair.

Just _swell._

“—right, right,” Moira’s saying distractedly, above, “no, we’re not passing through Citrifola, but we’ll be in Antares by little spring; it’s close enough—”

 _Why_ is it so hard to look presentable? And _not_ like she spent the night in Moira’s bed, because– stars, _that’s_ the last thing she needs right now, for anyone to get the wrong idea—

_Moira would love that, I bet. She’d think it was hilarious._

_Fuck!_

Flames lick under her cheeks. She burrows into her cloak and marches out of the great cabin anyway, trying for a nonchalant saunter and–

Sunlight rips through her vision, sharp as a needle to the eye; she flinches. The sky’s a flat, harsh blue, and the sea shines like polished diamond.

“ _Nngh–_ ”

“—not worried about them,” Andrew drawls. “Gotta hold on through what’s left of the year and then, what, Shóldan, Chīrlóhot? Before help from the plains even matters. So if Eldora gets involved—”

“You need to _count_ on Eldora getting involved,” Moira says tartly. “This—” She waves a sheaf of papers as Cassandra skulks up to the aft deck, dignity in tatters. “—helps, but I can’t just– snap my fingers and rewrite inconvenient— _hm._ Morning, honey.”

Six pairs of eyes swing toward her, and Cassandra freezes. Moira smirks, foxlike. Pocket tosses her an oily wink over Moira’s shoulder, and a faint, amused smile plays over Sitheach’s lips. The Separatists cluster in front of the helm—three of them: Andrew, grinning, and two women. One’s tall, a rangy black woman with a riot of colorful beads, ribbons, and small copper bells threaded through her hair, a sunny gleam in her dark eyes; the other is stout, freckly, and rotund, her apple-cheeked face bracketed by two squat grey braids.

“…Don’t stop on my account,” Cassandra says stiffly.

“Cassie! If it isn’t my old _pal_ —”

“ _Don’t_ call me that–”

“Old friend?”

“So _you’re_ Cassandra Hároham!” the beribboned woman cries, before Cassandra can spit an answering jibe into Andrew’s face; she beams. “ _Amazing_ to meet you! I’m Juniper– and this is Clementine—and you obviously know Andrew.”

She bounces forward with a scintillant jingle and pumps Cassandra’s hand with inordinate excitement while Cassandra is still tripping over _Hároham._

“W- we’ve met– I actually, I prefer—” Except claiming the Commander’s name maybe isn’t a _great_ first impression; Cassandra swallows it. “I’m– I mean, yes, that’s me. Hello. You’re… Separatists?”

“Sure am! …Are? Well in any case—”

“We’re the ones really _fighting_ for Saporia’s freedom,” Andrew cuts in, with a sardonic glance at the pirates. “See, our biggest problem has always been convincing everyone to come together.”

“Folks are tired,” Juniper says.

“There aren’t many of us willing to stand up. Saporia’s been crushed so long that just believing things _could_ be different takes a lot of courage.” He chuffs, a crooked grin sprouting in the corner of his mouth, and leans back against the railing overlooking the main deck. “But that’s finally starting to change. Things are moving now—”

“—thanks to the _Syconium_ —” Clementine stabs a glance at Sitheach, who rolls their eyes—

“ _Anyway,_ ” Andrew says, louder, “Once we take Alcorsīa, oh- _ho,_ then the whole world’ll see what a united Saporia can do.” His grin turns cocky. “But you know that, Cassie– I knew you’d come around. Welcome to the right side of history.”

“Uh-huh.” Recruitment pitch, petty gloating, maybe he’s just a fanatic who _talks_ like this. Cassandra frowns at him, sullen, and mutters, “How’s the leg?”

“Ah–” The smug grin sags into a wince, and he massages the spot on his thigh where she stabbed him two months ago. Juniper snickers; he sighs, disgruntled, and then shrugs. “Water under the bridge, yeah?”

She puts on her sweetest smile. “Maybe. Call me ‘Cassie’ again and I’ll give you another one to match.”

“You know what?” Andrew coughs, while Moira guffaws. “That’s fair.”

## ❦

“Good morning, Varian! Morning, Lance!” Rapunzel crams a grin through her teeth as she marches into the galley with Eugene at her heels. Lance answers her with a muffled but merry _g’m’ning!_ through a mouthful of porridge, and Varian, who is scowling at Demanitus’s book in a pensive sort of way, blinks and lifts his eyes from the page after a second or two of awkward silence.

“Huh? Oh, hey Rapunzel.”

She plops onto the bench beside him, sending a nervous glance toward the other end of the galley, where the cook is wiping down his little stove and humming an unfamiliar march. Gulping, she ventures, “Um– good morning, Elis.”

“Yes, hello, Princess!” Elis booms, in his cut-glass Equisian accent. Her smile eases; Eugene sits down next to her, rubbing soft circles into the back of her neck, and Pascal churrs, drowsily, and flattens himself against her shoulder to make way. “You missed breakfast, sad to say! But—there is still porridge.”

“I see that,” she says, as Lance pushes the tureen of it her way and she half-rises to ladle some into two of the empty bowls set out for them. “Thank you.”

“Mmmm-hm.”

Then he lapses into humming again, but Rapunzel doesn’t allow her smile to falter. At least Elis _speaks_ to her. More than can be said of most of the _Zampermin’s_ crew, who address her in grunts or curt monosyllables if they respond to her at all.

“— _So,_ Varian,” she says, through her teeth, through her _grin,_ as she snatches up a spoon and pushes Eugene’s bowl of porridge over to him. “Any progress? Exciting breakthroughs? Theories?”

“…Hn? Oh!” Shooting her a rueful smile, Varian drops the book onto the table and rifles a hand through his bangs, like he’s trying to put his thoughts in order by smoothing the wild mop of his hair, and Rapunzel takes the moment to study his face.

He looks better. Healthier. Less bedraggled now that his hair is clean and the new clothes Lance scrounged up for him fit him better than his old cast-offs. A week of regular meals and bedtimes has softened the pinch from his cheeks and filled in the hollows of his eyes, despite the shadows lingering beneath them.

“Well, no,” Varian groans, scratching his jaw. “Xavier wasn’t _kidding_ when he said this stuff was mostly about Zha– you know. _Her._ S- so! And then, it’s all written in, hn, when it’s in Coronan it’s pretty _archaic,_ and there’s sections written in, I think some kind of code? Mael—” he flushes “—Mael, um, had a look the other day and _she_ said it didn’t look like any language she’d ever seen so, it might just be shorthand or- or like a cipher maybe? So—”

“Varian,” Eugene says in an undertone, “I’m… not sure it’s a good idea to be sharing the book with, uhm…”

“I know I know I know! But– well it just sort of came up.” Abashed, Varian flips through the book’s pages, back and forth. “She’s– hn, _really_ smart and… we were talking about the ship’s masts which are _fascinating_ by the way and then—”

“Mael’s _fine,_ ” Lance interrupts, throwing an exasperated glance down the table. “Come on, Eugene, lighten up; if nothing else the black rocks are Saporia’s problem, too, right?”

“Lance, they’re _Separatists,_ ” Eugene says. “Kidnapped Rapunzel? Attacked Herzingen? Started this whole _Zhan Tiri_ mess in the first place? Ring any bells?”

“Eugene…” Rapunzel touches his forearm, and he slumps over his porridge. Worry splinters his expression as his gaze flicks sideways to meet hers. “They’re also helping us now,” she says. “We should try to get along.”

Even if _they’re_ not the ones being standoffish.

Sighing, Eugene tips his head in concession. “You’re right, Sunshine; you’re right. All I’m saying is we should be cautious.”

“You know—” Elis drops onto the bench opposite them, and Rapunzel suppresses a guilty twitch. She’d forgotten all about his presence in the galley. “—I am not Saporian? So it is a little different for me, yes? I come from Equis, where— _heh._ We do not like Corona much either.”

He smiles.

“But outsiders like us, we make Saporians nervous. They are at the bottom, and I am up here—” He hovers one hand about an inch above the tabletop, palm flat, and then, raising the other hand above _that,_ continues, “—and you, Coronans, you are up _here._ So they are not _safe,_ you see? It is dangerous to be Saporian in Corona.”

With a loud _tha-thump,_ his hands crash back down on the table, and Rapunzel—thinking of how _fast_ Gilbert leapt to blame Cass when the Journal went missing—flinches.

 _But she_ did _steal the Journal._

She bites her lip. Echoes of what Nigel told her that day float back to her, too. _The Separatists have never shown any interest in negotiation. Diplomacy only works if everyone comes to the table._

“Why don’t they just ask for _help?_ ” she asks, plaintive. “Then- then things could be fixed, and no one would get hurt.”

“Ach, well, you know,” Elis says, “sometimes it is better to help yourself. Give them some patience, please. They are not bad people.”

With another bright smile, he pushes away from the table again and strolls out of the galley, leaving uncomfortable silence in his wake. Rapunzel takes a deep breath and tries to re-interest herself in the porridge, but her appetite has shriveled into nothing.

 _I’m not going to_ hurt _them,_ she thinks, squirming her toes into the wooden floor. _I’m not dangerous! None of_ them _got hurt at Janus Point—if anything,_ we _should be the ones who are scared! But we aren’t, so- so—!_

Resolve ignites in her chest. She leaps to her feet.

“…Hey, Sunshine… Look–”

“I’m going to find Cass,” she announces. “I’m- I think I’m ready to talk about it now.”

“Oh! Just- just like that, okay.” Blinking, Eugene flashes her a thumbs-up. “You want us to come with? For… support in case Cobra Lady whips out the fangs?”

“She’s still just _Cass,_ ” Rapunzel says, amused, and swoops down to peck his cheek. “Thank you. I’ll be fine, Eugene.”

Concern still stains his eyes as she straightens up again, but he nods. “Okay, Sunshine. Good luck.”

_I’ll fix this._

Wriggling her toes inside her socks, Rapunzel patters out of the galley and into the deserted cabin, then _up_ the ladder and into the glorious sunshine above deck. The crisp sea air billows over her, and she gulps a deep lungful of it, shading her eyes against the white glare off the sea while Pascal, with a grumpy chirp, huddles against her neck.

Then, as her vision adjusts, the bright bubble of her enthusiasm pops.

Voices spill down from the aftcastle, where Cassandra is chattering away with a handful of other people in the rough, sibilant language Rapunzel has come to recognize as Saporian. She has her back to the breeze and one hand pushed into her curls, keeping them from blowing into her face, and when the First Mate– _Pocket?_ leans closer and murmurs something with a mean glint in his beetle-black eyes, Cassandra’s lips twist in the way they do whenever she chuckles and _means_ it; and she has Moira Caine’s arm looped around her waist, _of course,_ because the pirate can’t seem to go ten minutes without putting her hands all over—

Her fingers twitch up to twiddle the buttons of her coat as she crosses the deck. It feels like her stomach’s sprung a leak and now the rest of her guts are marinating in acid.

She’s not scared. She’s _not._

But… every time Moira’s chilly gaze swings her way, those dark eyes curdle and blacken with _loathing._ And then Rapunzel’s stomach ties itself in fiery knots, and she wants to sink through the deck of the ship and curl up in her hammock with Eugene and Pascal—no, more than that, she wants to go _home._

She wants to hug her parents, she wants Mom’s soft smiles and quiet, level-headed advice, and Dad’s stern caution and steady calm; she wants to sit on her window bench with Eugene, nibbling cupcakes while they watch the sun set into the sea together. She wants to listen to Ludolf tell stories about the sun, and play chess with Gilbert, and explore the shops on Osiander Street with her friends and sneak bits of sausage to Pascal at the dinner table and, and–

She just wants everything to be _okay_ again.

 _Oh, Flower._ Figments of Gothel’s voice well up behind her thoughts; the echoes of a laugh she hasn’t heard in months. _You didn’t think it would_ last _—did you? The world is so cruel, my sweet Flower. So dark._

_Nothing good can survive out there for long._

Gasping, Rapunzel shakes those thoughts away, tip-toes up the steps to the aft deck, and calls out, “Cass?”

The focus of the whole group pivots toward her, tinted with everything from curiosity to amusement to scorn, but the worst part is the way Cassandra goes _stiff_ before she turns, wary.

“…Raps.”

Oh, it _hurts,_ seeing Cass look at her like that. Cautious, like _Rapunzel_ is the bad guy here—she swallows the hard lump in her throat, then swallows again, trying to wring some moisture into the voiceless desert of her mouth. “Hi,” she manages, her voice a creak. “Could we talk? A- alone?”

Unbidden, her gaze jags away from Cass. Raw malevolence _boils_ in Moira’s eyes; her lip curls into an ugly sneer. “Whatever you’ve got to say, you can say in front of us,” she says with envenomed sweetness. “ _Sunshine._ ”

“ _Don’t._ ” Cass digs her elbow into the pirate’s side and, rolling her eyes, slides away. She takes Rapunzel by the arm instead—Rapunzel’s heart kicks with vindictive satisfaction— “Sure, Raps–”

“Cassandra,” Moira says; then something else in Saporian, low and urgent. Rapunzel hunches. Not knowing what they’re _saying_ about her makes her heart pound and her skin itch and—

“ _Ghāśatar,_ ” Cassandra snaps, which pinches Moira’s face into tight unhappiness; a snicker ripples through the rest of the group.

As they turn away and Cass leads her back down to the main deck, Rapunzel can’t resist the urge to throw a small, pleased smile over her shoulder.

 _You don’t own her,_ she thinks.

Then she whispers, “What did she say to you?”

Cass snorts, but doesn’t answer right away. She swerves them around Mael with a mumbled _zháchil!,_ which the bosun returns with a bright grin that crumples into a curt nod for Rapunzel. Then, sighing, Cassandra says, “Moira’s got a lot of opinions. I told her to fu- to knock it off.”

“What opinions?”

“Rapunzel…”

“I mean, what could I have done to her to make her hate me this much?”

“I wouldn’t say she _hates_ —”

“I’ve been _nothing_ but nice to her!”

Fuming, she follows Cass down into the cabin, and Cassandra murmurs, “This sounds like something you should discuss with her, Raps.”

“I _will_ – _!_ ”

Cassandra offers up a noncommittal hum in response to that, and Rapunzel, biting her lip, slumps into silence. The fleeting stab of defiance festers into discomfort. The old Cass– _her_ Cass never hesitated to stand up for her.

She hunches, letting her gaze scrape over the interior of the cabin to distract herself. Whatever inconveniences her hammock in the cargo hold has to offer, Rapunzel is at least glad she doesn’t have to sleep _here._ The cabin itself is half the size of her closet in the palace, and six narrow bunks are crammed end-to-end along either wall with nothing but thin wooden panels and a curtain for privacy. It seems terribly _crowded._ And where do people go to _change?_

 _Cass must hate it,_ she thinks, frowning. _She’s so private—_

“Here,” Cass says, without inflection.

She draws back the curtain on one of the bunks, beckoning for Rapunzel to climb in, and smiles wanly as Rapunzel crawls past her. Inside, the bunk is cramped and dim, the tight space occupied by threadbare blankets and a thin, lumpy mattress. Beneath the general flavor of brine, it smells like _Cass:_ tinted with the pungency of the oil she cleans her weapons with, and the faint chalkiness of Owl’s feathers, and some warm umber scent that is just _her,_ subtle but unmistakable. A knot forms in Rapunzel’s throat as she reaches the end of the bunk and turns around, pulling her knees to her chest.

She’s _missed_ Cass; and now–

Cassandra clambers in after her and tugs the curtains shut, deepening the shadows strung from her to Rapunzel, and for a moment they stare each other. Rapunzel swallows once, twice, to clear the tears out of her voice, and realizes she doesn’t know how to begin. _Where_ to begin.

There’s so much distance between them now.

“…So?” Cassandra asks.

“I– Cass… how–? I mean, just—w-when… did it start?”

“…I’ve never not been Saporian, Rapunzel,” Cass mutters.

“No, I—” Hunching, she looks down. Picks at her bandages where they tent over her knuckles. Pascal squeaks, his little claws pinching her shoulders. “I know that–”

“But…” Groaning, Cass slumps against the partition separating her bunk from the next. “Tárosh is when all this really started,” she says quietly, plucking at the mattress. A small, rasping chuckle trickles past her lips. “Tárosh– you know, stealing the Journal was sort of—I never meant for it to happen. But I’d do it again.”

“ _Why?_ ”

Cass just _looks_ at her for an uncomfortable amount of time, her brow puckered in a minute, inscrutable frown, until Rapunzel squirms and tucks her chin against her knees.

“We’re friends,” Cass says at last, slow. “And I know this is a lot to ask, Rapunzel, but I- I’m _not ready_ to tell you. Please–”

“ _Cass_ —”

“Please just trust me,” Cass whispers, her eyes wide and shining in the gloom. “I promise there are reasons. I’m… working through– and when I’m ready to talk about it I _promise_ I’ll come to you right away but right now I can’t–”

“You _betrayed Corona,_ ” Rapunzel says thickly. Cass winces, and the way her face twists is almost enough to snatch the words from her throat; but she quells the urge to swallow and apologize. “You- you, you betrayed _me,_ Cass.”

“Rapunzel—”

“I got _kidnapped_ by Separatists because of you– Zhan Tiri nearly _escaped_ because—and _Sugracha_ —” She clamps her fingers over her lips against the swell of tears, but they bubble out anyway, hot and blinding. “I deserve to know _why_ — _!_ ”

“Well it wasn’t about _you!_ ”

Chest heaving, Cassandra stares at her, while the shout curdles in the horrible closeness of the chasm between them.

“…Cass…”

She reaches out; but Cass shakes her head, wrenches the curtain open, and bolts. Her footsteps thunder a fast retreat. The ship dips nauseatingly in the ripples of her departure, and Rapunzel, shivering, wilts in the jagged silence.


	2. Chapter 2: Thorn-Bird

###  **Chapter 2: Thorn-Bird**

As the Separatists file off the ship, Moira braces her arms against the taffrail and rolls her neck until it pops loudly in the breezy quiet. She grunts in satisfaction. _That went… about as well as anyone could expect._

Spoiled princesses notwithstanding.

“Pocket,” she says. “We all settled with Mosel to bounce tonight?”

“Everything’s in order.”

“Grand. I’ll be out most of the day; you know how Neasa gets…”

Amusement folds into the corners of his eyes. “We can handle ourselves alone for a few hours. Even with our— _ahem_ —honored guests.”

“Right. Sitheach, you’re on babysitting duty today.” Moira claps their shoulder, merrily ignoring the dour glance they throw her in turn. _No one better to torment poor little Sunshine._ “See if you can’t put ’em to work—”

The cabin hatch slams open, and Moira narrows her eyes as Cassandra boils out of it: rigid, pale, wearing the fractured grimace Moira remembers from Unification Day. _Hell._

“—scratch _that,_ ” she mutters while Cassandra stalks over the main deck. “Toss _Sunshine_ overboard for all I care.”

Sitheach’s snickering floats after her as she lopes down from the aftcastle, following Cassandra off the ship.

 _Hm, hm. She told the truth and the Princess didn’t care; didn’t believe her? Scolded her? Or threw a royal tantrum before she could_ _tell?_

 _Or is she inexplicably distraught about some_ other _insane thing she’s decided is her fault?_

“—Didn’t go _well,_ I see,” Moira says when she catches up to Cassandra, halfway up the pier.

“I don’t want to t- _don’t_ touch me!”

She shies into a defensive hunch, breathing hard, and Moira goes very still. The breeze rattles with the slow splintering of Cassandra’s composure.

_Ah._

A half-step back. Moira drops her hand to her side; then, for good measure, stuffs both into the pockets of her coat. Rasping, Cassandra tucks into herself like she’s bracing herself for a physical blow.

 _Too much. Okay._ She’s seen Cassandra like this before: in Herzingen, in Socona, in Herrfeld. Precipices. It had been easy to press the advantage in Herzingen—and even easier to retreat when she pushed too far by mistake, after. This time, not knowing what the Princess _said_ to hurt her, she feels a little at a loss.

_Don’t press._

Offering to keel-haul her precious Princess also won’t help, no matter _how_ strong the temptation.

She inhales, releases it in a long, quiet sigh, and then says, “I’m off to the market on Danachr Street. Gotta pick up a bottle of ázondh for Neasa.” It’s the first plausible excuse that springs to mind. Transparent, but also a pointed glance away from whatever Cassandra doesn’t want her to see. “Come along if you’d like; otherwise… meet here in an hour, if you’re still up for lunch.”

Then she strolls away. _No pressure–_

Four strides before Cassandra skulks after her. Moira grins up the pier, pleased, and they walk together in easy silence.

It’s a pleasant enough day, for Zīrémīr. Sunlight shaves the frigid air down to a mere chill, and the breeze gamboling off the water lacks the usual wintry sting. Nice for a walk, and, she thinks smugly, nicer with company.

At the end of the pier, they swing south along the wharf, then thread between the two decrepit warehouses that flank the entrance to Danachr Street. As the stale, fishy shadows fall over them, Cassandra mumbles, “What’s ázondh?”

“A drink.” Which is a useless answer. Moira shakes her hair out of her eyes with a wry smile. “Like… wine? But it’s made with crēzhatē. It’s good.”

“Oh.”

Her chin droops. Moira watches her sideways, thoughtfully. From anyone else, that might’ve been simple curiosity; but coming from _Cassandra,_ well…

If there’s a way to twist Saporian alcohol into another bed of coals to rake herself over, she trusts Cassandra will find it. The woman is a veritable _maze._ Forever retreating into the convoluted paths of her thoughts to torture herself with guilt until she cracks and then—leaping off another cliff. For no reason Moira can see other than she feels like she _has_ to, the heroic idiot.

Pestering makes it worse. Indulging it feels like a great way to get _her_ killed, too–

So… _distraction._ Errands; idle talk. Moira kicks a loose cobble, and it clatters into the gutter; loud and unsatisfying. She says, “What’s on your mind, honey?”

“…Crēzhatē.” Scowling, Cassandra tugs on the clasp of her cloak, then mutters in Coronan, “You translated that as henge berries, before.”

Uncertainty lurks in the gaps between each word; Moira lifts an eyebrow. “Mhm.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s… what… they are?”

“But that isn’t– what it _should_ mean.”

Distress hitches her voice. She sounds so miserable that Moira feels a curl of sympathy amid the wash of confusion; she’ll take whatever _this_ is over fretting about Rapunzel, but— _why?_

“What do _you_ think it should mean?”

“It– _it—”_ Cassandra snaps her head to one side, grinding her teeth together. A nerve in her jaw spasms. “I thought th- that prefix meant… sacred, or blessed or–”

“Oh- _oh,_ it’s– no.” She cups the back of her neck, sighing heavily. “I mean, _kind of?_ But there isn’t really an equivalent word in Coronan. Divine works for some things—like _Crēzáthan,_ you could translate as ‘divine lady,’ because she’s a _god;_ but for others—like crēzhatē, there’s nothing… special _–_ they’re just _berries._ But they grow around Zhan Tiri’s places, right? So we call them crēzhatē, because they’re _near_ her.”

Cassandra slouches, grimacing. Moira groans.

“I’m not… explaining it very well,” she admits. “Profane things– things from _this_ realm can’t be—it’s not like the Sunlit Temple’s thing with sacred candles, yeah? Stuff is just _stuff,_ unless it’s been touched by the sublime, which makes it craémay. And that really only happens when a cháthar does their craóanē.”

“And what does _that_ —”

“Cháthar is, like– someone who handles magic.”

“Like… Sirin.”

“Or Sitheach or Helcha, right. Witches. And a craóanē is a kind of prayer done _with_ magic. In Socona, when Sitheach raised those dead guards—”

“That was a craóanē.”

“Yeah.”

“Feldspar never talked about this stuff,” Cassandra says, voice sinking low as she slides back into Saporian.

“Who?”

“He’s– he’s a cobbler, in Herzingen. My friend. And he’s Saporian. He made sure—” Something unpleasant contorts her expression; she bites her lip. “—He helped me remember the language, after… you know. And I knew his grandmother worshipped Char Malách; he mentioned, once… But that was it. And I never _asked._ ”

“You can ask now,” Moira replies quietly.

“I… know,” Cassandra says, and it sounds like a lie. She swallows with an audible _click,_ scuffing her feet against the uneven cobbles _._ “It’s just… there’s a lot.”

Moira lifts a hand and, when Cassandra doesn’t draw away, touches her shoulder gingerly. Her fingertips find sharp tension, twitching beneath the folds of her cloak. “There’s a shrine in the marketplace. It’s not much. Separatists put it up about a year ago; for a few months the watchmen kept tearing it down, but it’d go right back up overnight and after a while they stopped trying, so… it’s there now. Used to be one in every square before the conquest—Alcorsīa wasn’t always a dump.”

Cassandra shrugs, and Moira squeezes her shoulder once before pulling her hand away.

“I’m not really… religious,” she adds. “But it’s– it’s been nice, knowing it’s there, you know? People light candles, or leave flowers and shells and things. Tokens. To pay respects, or for luck, or… whatever. You could– if you wanted—”

 _This is yours,_ she wants to say. _Your birthright. They tried to steal it from you, but they can’t. It’s yours, it’s yours, it’s yours._

Instead, examining the morose but otherwise unreadable expression carving up Cassandra’s face, she clears her throat and says, “We used to have a temple, too. Nothing like the one in Charcāthēn, but it was still– it was _ours._ When my grandmother was a little girl the Coronans tore it down and built houses over the ruins, on upper Nācháth. Neasa has some old sketches of what it looked like—my great-grandfather drew them, before…”

Stories, and stories, and stories. One of her clearest childhood memories is of the angry tears welling in Neasa’s eyes as she touched the brittle, yellowing pages of the sketchbook.

 _Remember, Moirīdh. When someone hits you you get back up and spit your blood back in their face, you hear me? Don’t you ever stop fighting. Don’t you_ ever _forget where you come from._

Somewhere along the way she started hearing the sea call louder than Saporia’s absent, useless gods; but, hell, she remembers the _stories._ The weight and shape of them on her shoulders. Something to hold on to when she’s far away from home.

And who would she be without that?

## ❦

She’s not sure what Moira’s trying to _do._

Temples and shrines, prayers—as Danachr Street winds toward the marketplace, Moira rambles about Cháraen bonfires, Tároshdhan feasts, the drums on Salanmora, and Cassandra just listens, feeling awkward with nothing to contribute. The steady ramble chases thoughts of Rapunzel away, at least. Easier than stilted silence, and better than the blame crouching in the back of her mind.

The marketplace is a dingy curl of open space ringed by drab little shops, all scabbed over with ice. Moira dawdles through all of them while Cassandra drifts along beside her, a little bemused. Stories trickle down into chatter with the shopkeepers, who all seem to _know_ Moira, and she buys something from every shop. A few spools of thread, a knit scarf, two little packs of biscuits, an ink bottle, little things—and then, lastly, from a dusty tavern at the corner of the market, the ázondh.

It’s crimson, bottled in clear glass, and Cassandra might have taken it for wine if Moira hadn’t already told her otherwise. While Moira leans against the bar, exchanging pleasantries with the spindly barman—“How’s the girls? Nechm healing up alright?”—Cassandra rubs her thumb over the label.

Spidery lines of ink carve a henge-stone from the thin paper. Ivy chokes the stone, rendered in such fine detail that it seems to quiver when she touches it. A prickle of briar beneath her thumb.

She twitches.

“—But we’d best get going,” Moira says, stretching languidly away from the bar.

“You give my best to Neasa,” the barman says, and Moira tosses a grin and a wave over her shoulder as she sweeps Cassandra back outside.

“Do you know _everyone?_ ”

“I grew up here,” Moira says airily. Then, with a tilt of her chin toward the center of the marketplace, “Last chance, honey—want to take a closer look?”

The chilly air grips her by the throat. She’s been glancing past the shrine since they arrived, careful, and she had hoped Moira might take the hint and let her pretend it doesn’t _exist;_ but now, caught, she crumbles to the pressure of her curiosity.

The shrine looks as dour as anything in Alcorsīa: a lump of driftwood lashed to a crumbling stone plinth. It crests into a froth of gnarled roots at the top, and little ornaments of nacre dangle from the crown on thin strips of leather. Strange symbols are burnt into its flanks, harsh black against the salt-bleached wood; fluid whorls, little jots, short, slashing lines.

More interesting are the people who flit past. None of them _linger._ They skitter out of shops, clutching their bags and tucked into coats, and hurry about their business—but as they pass the shrine, there’s always a flicker of extra movement. The flash of a token dropped on the plinth, or a curling little _twist_ of fingers through the air. Sometimes a slowing of steps, a tilted head, a smiling glance at the ornaments bobbling in the breeze.

It scrapes an envious pang from the bottom of her thoughts. And a brackish curiosity, something base and—

Once, when she was eight or nine, lightning had struck the palace gatehouse during the night. There had been a scream like the dying of the world, a vast intimacy of thunder; then, come morning, hideous scars befouled the pristine white of the palace walls. The disemboweled stone wept black glass—watchmen scuttled over the ruins like ants— And later, she had gone to the harbor with the Commander, and in the slurried grey sand beneath the docks there lay a hundred, a _thousand_ wilted lilac-petal bodies. A whole bloom of jellyfish massacred by the storm. She remembers shivering, feeling the brutality of the thunder in her bones like the heartbeat of some great– or like an echo, of the drumming surf. A voiceless ache.

Her mouth goes dry. Cassandra shakes her head, her scabbed knuckles burning. She can’t bring herself to speak.

“Come on, then,” Moira says, touching her elbow. She turns them up Danachr Street, and Cassandra stumbles after her. Away from the shine, whose serpentine shadow seeps through the back of her skull. “I, for one, am starving. Oh– and by the way, honey. If you’d like to be polite, Neasa and Mom are both ‘Lady Caine’ to you, until they tell you otherwise.”

“Oh. Uh–”

Catching her alarm, Moira snickers. “We’re not _nobility,_ relax. It’s just polite when you’re meeting someone—a little formal, if you’re the same age. Like if I called you—” she soars into a syrupy croon “— _Miss Morgenstern._ ”

“I can’t believe _you’re_ giving me a lesson on _manners_.”

“I save up politeness for those who _deserve_ it.” Moira flutters her lashes, coy and simpering. “You know– children, the elderly, easy marks—”

Cassandra swats her arm, and Moira laughs, and the tight feeling in her chest eases. The marketplace sinks away behind them, swallowed by the crowded curve of the street, and a comfortable silence settles. She breathes in, and out, and in again, cleansing her lungs with salt and the faint whiff of smoke on the breeze.

_It’s alright._

Shivering, she murmurs, “Rapunzel’s upset.”

“Really.”

“Yeah.”

“I… gathered.” Moira glances at her, brow knitting with trace concern. “What did she have to say?”

“I don’t want to tell you.” She’s braced for indignation, protest, but Moira meets this with silence. Her expression doesn’t even flicker. “I- it’s… just. She _already_ thinks you hate her, and—”

“I do hate her.”

Cassandra glares at her; Moira beams back.

“ _Bu-ut_ – I can be… civil. If that’s your worry, honey.”

“It is,” Cassandra says stiffly.

And there’s _already_ a little voice muttering darkly in the back of her mind. Cruel half-thoughts about Rapunzel pushing, _pushing,_ never listening and never giving quarter. She can’t risk Moira feeding it. This is hard for _all of them,_ and she can’t afford to lose sight of that.

“Fine,” Moira sighs. “I won’t pretend to _like_ her, but I’ll—” she smirks “—mind my _manners._ ”

“Thank you.”

“Anything for you, honey.”

“Must be a real burden for you, not being _terrible._ ”

“Oh, I’ll _manage._ Somehow.”

Grinning, she links her arm around Cassandra’s, and Cassandra decides to just leave it at that. What’s been said is _said;_ and Rapunzel does have, she reminds herself _again,_ the right to her anger. Nothing she said was unfair.

_You can’t not explain and then hold her not knowing against her. That’s not fair._

It just– it _stings._

That’s all.

Moira hums, and doesn’t press. A few minutes of walking smooths the grubby shops into a series of tall, narrow row houses, and after the first dozen or so—

“Here it is.”

It’s one of the nicer buildings. The facade had been beautiful, once, before grime infested the delicate shell patterns carved into the grey-blue stone. Now, it gives Cassandra the impression of a tarnished mirror, a little cracked, gathering dust. Moira lets them inside with an equally tarnished key, and leads the way through the dank interior—past a rickety staircase—to an apartment near the end of the dank hallway.

The door sticks in its frame, and Moira shoulders it open, singing out, “I’m home—”

“Moira!”

Delight threads the wet _crackle_ of the greeting, and something about it makes the back of her neck _itch_ as she steps over the threshold. The owner of the voice is a frail woman, who sits tucked into a wheelchair next to the table at the other end of the room. She’s sallow, her gaunt face worn thin and wrinkled by the passage of years. Frizzy red hair shot through with grey piles atop her head. The blanket folded over her lap is a study in chaos. Riotous, clashing patches of pattern and color war across it; the messy sampler of a feverish knitter.

Beaming, the woman holds out her hands, and Moira, murmurs, “Hey, Mom.”

It hits her like a blow to the chest. Moira crosses the room to take her mother’s hands, and Cassandra looks away. Shuts the door, runs her hands over the old, cracked paint. Something lodges in her throat. A thorny weight.

 _What’s_ wrong _with you? You’ve seen people with parents before—_

“You must be the Hároham girl,” drawls a second voice, and Cassandra whips around.

A second woman grins at her from the entrance to another room. She’s very tall, broad in the shoulder, her face all hard lines and weathered to a leathery tan. Cropped brown curls froth around her ears. She gazes down the elegant hook of her nose like an eagle passing judgment, and Cassandra gawks in turn.

“I- I, well– yes?”

“Oh, don’t scare the poor thing, Neasa.” With a papery chuckle, Moira’s mother holds out her thin hands again and smiles at Cassandra. “Lada Caine, dear– call me Lada. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“We’ve heard so much,” Neasa adds.

Cassandra shuffles across the room to clasp Lada’s hand without sinking into the floor and suffocating on her embarrassment, but it’s a close thing. Moira doesn’t even have the grace to look abashed about _gossiping_ —

Lada’s hands are flaky and dry, and up close, she exudes the faint, sickly-sweet smell of something rotten.

Gulping, Cassandra mumbles, “It’s nice– I- yeah.”

“This is Cassandra,” Moira says. She squeezes her mother’s shoulder, frowning. “ _Morgenstern,_ Neasa, I told you.”

Neasa harrumphs. “Oh, of course. _Sorry._ ”

“…And that,” Lada says, looking exasperated, “is my sister-in-law, Neasa. Don’t worry, dear—she barks louder than she bites.”

“Must run in the family,” Cassandra says before she can stop herself and _why_ did she agree to this— “It’s nice– um. Th- thank you. For having me.”

Neasa’s scrutiny feels like a needle stitching disdain into her soul. She edges closer to Moira, withering.

“Of course,” Neasa drawls. “Anything for a friend of Moira’s. Come help with the food. No– _just_ you, Cassandra.” She smiles, very thinly. “I’d like a word.”

_Oh, stars. Sun above. Why?!_

Snickering, Moira makes a little _go on_ gesture, and Cassandra sees no other option but to shudder and follow Neasa into the tiny, blisteringly hot kitchen. She feels like a mouse venturing into the nest of a hawk. Her pulse buzzes in her ears.

“Well, you’ve caused quite the stir,” is the first thing Neasa says. She puts a knife in Cassandra’s hands and plants her in front of a bowl of kelp stalks. “Chopped finely and then into the pan. Do stop _shaking._ Good gods, girl, I’m not going to _stab_ you.”

“Well that’s a relief,” Cassandra stammers.

It isn’t a joke, but Neasa laughs anyway; she sips air, forcing her fingers to relax around the handle of the knife. She will _not_ slice off a finger in front of this woman. Moira would never let her live it down.

She chops. The kelp feels slick and rubbery, and her palm goes clammy against the knife, but at least the sharp pressure of Neasa’s attention dissipates as she slinks away to stir one of the pots atop the grated hearth. Something sizzles. A thick, pleasant aroma suffuses the kitchen.

_She can’t be worse than Mrs. Crowley._

“You know,” Neasa says after a moment, “to hear some tell it you may as well be the next Sorchā.”

“Wh- _what–_ ”

“Now, _I_ know that isn’t true,” she continues placidly, before Cassandra can ask what on _earth_ that means. “But people like to have something to hope for. People like _heroes._ ”

The knife wobbles. Neasa’s _looking_ at her again; it’s like a coal pressed into the side of her face.

“I’m not a hero,” she mumbles.

As a child she cultivated ridiculous fantasies of becoming one; imagined the Lost Princess stolen away by evil Separatists and raised to hate the country she was destined to rule, and herself as the brave knight who rode out to meet her when the Princess advanced on Herzingen, and showed her the truth, and then—

Bitter irony curdles in her throat. She’d grown out of such childish nonsense by the time she was fourteen, when the more… _reasonable_ goal of joining the King’s Watch swept the fairytale dreams away. No heroism in watch work. Only a lot of standing around and following orders. Paperwork. Justice—and _oh,_ she misses the security of believing in _justice_ so fiercely it makes her stomach hurt.

But things are different now.

“I’m not _trying_ to be a hero,” she whispers.

“Hmmm.”

“I’m just trying to get by.”

“Aren’t we all,” Neasa drawls, sounding so _much_ like Moira that Cassandra fumbles the knife and nearly _does_ cut herself.

“I—”

“Moira,” she adds, “is very taken with you.”

“O-o– _oh?_ ”

She’s reached the end of the kelp. Neasa lifts an eyebrow at her efforts when Cassandra tilts the cutting board toward her for inspection, then gives her a curt nod and steps out of the way so she can scrape it into the pan. The kelp crackles.

“She’s been a- a good friend–”

“She’s a good girl,” Neasa says. A definite note of pride creeps into her tone, and though it isn’t for _her,_ Cassandra still feels a rush of relief. It’s better than the brusque disdain. “Here– stir. She was very sensitive as a child, you know.”

“Was… she?”

The pan is filled with strips of fish and a muddle of chopped greens, little onions and small mushrooms. It hisses angrily under her spoon.

“Oh, yes. She took Torin’s loss very hard.”

Heat roars out of the hearth, a smothering counterpoint to Neasa’s searing scrutiny. Cassandra stirs, and stirs, and–

It’s hard to imagine Moira as a _child._ Hurting. Sensitive. The haunted shadows that fill her eyes whenever they brush close to the subject of her father whisper of pain, but even so; she seems so _steady._ Not like she’s falling apart inside, not like every little thing feels like another laceration stripping her of flesh from the inside out.

“Oh,” she croaks, not sure what else to say.

“And of course poor Lada has been ill for such a long time.” Neasa pokes her away from the hearth, and she retreats to stand in the corner, awkward and useless, while Neasa pulls the pan away and slides the contents into a platter. “I’m afraid Moira had to grow up rather too fast, after they took my brother away.”

“Lady Caine—”

“Neasa, please.”

“Neasa. …Why… are you telling me this.”

Sighing, Neasa dips a ladle into a bubbling pot of thick, greenish sauce. “She believes in you,” she says quietly. “You’d best not let her down.”

Cassandra crumples into herself, at a loss, while Neasa garnishes the dish with dried crēzhatē. What in the _world_ Moira could have said to prompt _this—_

_Believes in me! Please. I almost got her killed–_

“Now take this—” Neasa jabs a finger at the platter, turning to the hearth again. “—out to the table. It’s time to eat.”

“R- Right—”

As she wobbles out of the kitchen, Moira folds up from the table, looking wry, and meets her halfway.

“Doing alright?” she murmurs.

“I… see where you get it from, I think,” Cassandra whispers back, and Moira, snorting, takes the platter.

The table’s been laid out for four, and the bottle of ázondh sits next to the little jar of dried flowers in the center. Moira nestles the platter into the empty space with a fussiness that could rival the palace waitstaff, and Neasa marches out an impressive array of side dishes: slices of coarse bread and a tray of butter, laver, and half a dozen jams; a porcelain boat filled with the remaining sauce; kelp chips and pickled cockles; fat little bundles of kelp leaves stuffed with what appears to be minced fish and algae.

They sit. Lada rolls herself to the head of the table; Moira uncorks the ázondh and pours a glass for everyone, amusement glinting in her eyes.

_Relax. It’s alright. Just relax–_

“So, Cassandra,” Lada says, and Cassandra jolts, nearly slopping sauce into her lap. Moira chuckles. “Tell us about yourself.”

“…I–” Sun above, what does she _say?_ She opens her mouth and no sound comes out but a pathetic creak. Flushing, she passes the sauce on to Neasa, and mutters, “I’m just… me.”

“Mm.” Lada gives her an uncomfortably sympathetic look, and Cassandra stares into her plate. How is she going to survive a whole _meal_ — “I understand you have a pet… owl?”

Why why _why_ —Moira does not return her betrayed glance, and all things considered Owl is better than her parents or _Sirin_ or her brush with Zhan Tiri at Janus Point or—

Moira knocks her ankle under the table, and Cassandra sucks in a breath. Breathing. _Air._ “I- I, yeah. Owl. Is his name.”

“Sensible,” Lada says mildly. “Not one he’s likely to forget.”

“Y- yeah I– heh. Sure.” _Calm down, calm down!_ Lada looks kind, and nothing in her tone suggests mockery; still, Cassandra fiddles with her fork, her breathing coming faster. “There– was this nesting pair that lived in one of the parks near the- the… palace. A few years ago.” Their attention feels like daggers at her throat. Her heart hammers. “I used to—I’d sit and watch them, when I had a minute free and, well, about four years ago a cat got into the nest and—you can imagine. Got the parents. Owl was the only chick who survived the night but he was hurt pretty badly so I took care of him and then once he fledged he didn’t seem to want to leave so I just– I trained him. He’s almost five now.”

“He sounds like a pigeon,” Moira says.

“He does _not_.”

“Does so. He _coos_ —”

“It’s a _trill,_ thank you—”

Lada coughs: a harsh explosive sound. Cassandra breaks off, startled, and Lada bends and presses a napkin to her mouth and coughs and _coughs,_ shaking with the force of every crackling gasp—

_Like a luffing sail._

No one says a word. Moira leans over, smoothing her hand against her mother’s back, bleak-faced.

“Ex- excuse me, dear,” Lada wheezes, once it’s done. She shuts her eyes, shuddering, as she catches her breath and color trickles back into her ashen face. “I’m not– Moira may have mentioned I’m not… well.”

“She did,” Cassandra whispers. “Yeah.”

“I’m alright,” Lada says gently. She rasps, and clears her throat with a wet rattle. “Owl sounds lovely. What sort of things do you do with him?”

“Just…” Feeling dizzy, Cassandra picks up her fork again and prods at her food without enthusiasm. Shame twists in her gut; how could she have thought Moira’s desire to heal her mother was only a _pretense?_ “…you know… falconry stuff, and a few little tricks. And to leave the royal pigeons alone. Um… The thing is, though, falcons respond to visual cues, and owls rely on their hearing, so I had to adapt some things— and Owl’s really too small for serious hawking anyway—”

None of them stop her, so she eases into the telling; how she trained Owl to hunt for himself, how she’d taught him to fly with her during her evening rides for exercise and to keep him from getting bored; and the work they’re doing in the evenings now to get him accustomed to life on the _Zampermin_ and his new daytime lodgings in the great cabin, and…

Lada coughs, often but seldom for as long as the first fit; and Neasa interjects once or twice to ask questions, but aside from that the Caines let her ramble on without interruption. It’s a little disquieting.She isn’t used to people paying attention to her, not like this, not while she’s talking about such mundane things. Even Rapunzel, for all the intensity of her enthusiasm, was always more fascinated by what the wider world had to offer than the dull minutia of Cassandra’s hobbies. It makes her _jittery._

When she lapses into awkward silence at last, Neasa nudges the plate of stuffed kelp toward her and says, “Do try the sausage if the fish isn’t to your liking. You’re leaving tonight, Moirīdh, yes?”

“Mhm. After sundown,” Moira replies, smirking through Cassandra’s stammering embarrassment. “So it’s all in Andrew’s hands now. I’m sure he’s so pleased.”

“Don’t disparage the man, darling. Organizing’s difficult work.”

“Hard at work, still a bastard,” Moira says. “if you need anything while I’m away—”

“We’ll _manage,_ dear,” Lada says, reaching for her hand. “Don’t worry.”

“—just talk to Mosel.”

Slowly, Cassandra loads her fork with fish and greens to make her first real stab at _eating_. Delicate layers of spice burst on her tongue, and as she chews, the first inklings of an appetite prickle through the anxiety simmering in her stomach. She takes another bite, half listening while Moira launches into the details of the loose itinerary she already knows by heart, and gingerly picks up her glass of ázondh.

It turns out to have a _sharp_ taste—bitter, enough to make her mouth pucker—but when it hits the back of her throat the scrape of alcohol melts into sticky sweetness. Her eyes water.

“—two or three months at a minimum, and that’s _without_ taking into account detours to Quintonia and—” Moira sighs “—wherever _else_ this black rock thing leads us.”

“Chasing _Demanitus,_ ” Neasa mutters darkly.

“Yeah, well, it is what it is. _Point_ is– in all likelihood we’ll be gone well over a year. Aphelion’s a long way.”

“We’ll be _fine,_ dear.”

Moira smiles, wry. “I know. But I’ll miss you.”

“Well, do try not to worry,” Neasa says crisply. “We’ve been taking care of ourselves since longer than you’ve been alive, after all.”

## ❦

The conversation wanders after that; Cassandra stays quiet, mostly, listening. Moira holds her mother’s hand while Lada talks about the quilt she’s knitting and the health of the herbs planted in little pots on every window sill; Neasa fills them in on the individual plights of what sounds like every fisherman in the city, threading in tidbits of gossip about the Separatists while pinning Cassandra with a hawkish stare, as if daring her to say something stupidly _Coronan_ about it. But Cassandra holds her tongue, and the moment passes, and the talk flows on to the subject of what the artisans of the Splendorous Temple will do with upper Nāchath once the city has been liberated and the burnt ruins of the constabulary have been cleared away…

It’s well after noon when they depart. Moira hugs Neasa and her mother goodbye while Cassandra hovers, examining the toes of her boots; it feels like such a private, _personal_ thing—

The cold outside bites harder than it did in the morning, and late shadows slink languidly over Danachr Street. When Moira slings her arm around Cassandra’s waist, Cassandra nestles into her without protest. She’s _warm._

“Glad you came?”

“I– yes. Your aunt is… a lot.”

Moira chuckles. “Yeah. She likes you, though.”

“….Does– _does_ she?!”

“Trust me,” Moira says, jostling her. “That was Neasa playing _nice._ ”

“She said some things—”

Moira tilts toward her, and her nerve breaks against the plain curiosity in Moira’s eyes. She shrugs, uncomfortable.

_She believes in you._

What does that even _mean?_

“…It just… sort of felt like she was sizing me up.”

“Oh. Well, yeah. She does that.” Moira nudges her again, a grin creeping over her lips. “But you did fine.”

Cassandra nods, swallowing against the hard block of uncertainty. It did not _feel_ fine—but it hadn’t been a _disaster,_ either. No one had died or gotten brainwashed or pulled Zhan Tiri out of a hat or—

They keep a brisk pace against the cold, but it still takes almost half an hour to get back to the _Zampermin._ Cassandra sheds her discomfort piece by piece, savoring the quiet until the street spills them out onto the wharf.

Halfway down the pier, she hears the shouting, and her heart sinks.

“— _you!_ —”

“—much a right to be here as—”

“—you _cannot_ be serious, she _attacked_ —”

“—just shut _up,_ pretty boy, you don’t—”

“—will everyone _please_ calm—” 

“— _what are you doing here?!_ ”

Moira says, “ _Ah_ ,” and slides away, breaking into a jog—Cassandra hurries after her—

Chaos greets them as they mount the gangplank. The whole crew spreads out in a loose circle around Rapunzel, Lance, and Eugene—Varian’s up on the aft deck with Mael, looking terrified—and in the middle of it all— She nearly chokes on her tongue.

Sirin is on board the _Zampermin._

 _Sun and moon and_ stars, _why—_

“ _Enough!_ ” Moira roars, and everyone jolts into startled silence. For a moment there’s no sound but the wind and the sea and the buzzing in Cassandra’s ears—

Moira exhales sharply. “ _Sirin._ This is… unexpected. Long time no see.”

Sirin’s cold glance skims right past her and lands, splintering, on Cassandra instead. Strain pulls her mouth taut; her eyes are bright with a sleepless shine. Cassandra grimaces at her, a swarm of contradictory things crowding her head.

Chief among them an _acute_ awareness of Rapunzel’s sharp, demanding glare.

_Stars above._

“H- hi.”

“Cassandra,” Sirin says. It’s barely a breath. “I–”

Her gloved fingers twitch, lacing together in a way that feels crushingly _familiar;_ and it occurs to Cassandra for the first time that they do look… alike. They share the same large, aquiline nose; the same heavy lids over mossy, grey-green eyes; the same severe cheekbones and squarish jaw.

She wonders if it hurts Sirin to look into her face and see echoes of her brother–

 _Or of her own children._ Helpless, awful sympathy crashes through her, drowning out everything else.

She has no idea what to _say._

Sirin takes a deep breath. “Walk with me? …Please.”

“Sure,” Cassandra whispers. “Yeah—”

And then Rapunzel steps between them, wrenching her back to _reality._ “Cass. Who is this?”

Accusation laces every word. She has gone rigid, and her arms jerk as she grips the wrist Sirin cut open two months ago, and Cassandra can see the terror bubbling behind the suspicion shading her clear green eyes and—

“…You haven’t told her,” Sirin says blankly.

Sick horror swallows her whole. “Raps– Rapunzel. This... is– this is… Sirin Hároham.” Harsh Coronan, heavy on her tongue. The easy part. Her stomach pounds with nausea and her heart is trying to crawl out through her boots; Cassandra snatches a desperate breath and forces out the next words in a rush. “She’s– Rapunzel—she’s my aunt.”

Rapunzel’s face shutters. Her eyes go glassy and blank; the familiar rictus of her false smile crawls into place, sluggishly, like it’s not quite sure it’s wanted.

_Oh, no. No, no, no—_

“ _Oh._ How… how nice. To meet you. _Sirin._ ” She sounds like she’s being strangled, but she turns toward Sirin with a cracked smile, which withers when Sirin does not return it. “Again! With no kidnapping this time! Or—!”

“Quite,” Sirin says. “Nothing personal, of course.”

“Nothing _pers_ — Listen, lady,” Eugene snaps, striding forward to rest his hands on Rapunzel’s shoulders. “No, you don’t get to kidnap Rapunzel and _torture_ her and then just show up a couple months later and say it was _nothing_ —”

“My life does not turn on the convenience of the Coronan monarchy,” Sirin says curtly. “I am here to speak to my _niece._ If you want me to leave, I suggest you let me _get on with it._ ”

“Cass—”

Rapunzel turns to her, mask shattered, plaintive, and Cassandra rakes her lip through her teeth. She could salvage this; she could turn Sirin away, spurn her heritage and take Rapunzel below decks for a lengthy and long overdue talk and _plead_ for forgiveness—

_No, you couldn’t._

The need to get _away_ claws at her. “I’ll explain later, Raps,” she chokes out. “When– when I get back–”

“ _Cass_ —”

She bolts. Back down the gangplank, back up the pier—footsteps behind her, and Moira snapping, “No you _don’t,_ ” and a spluttering protest from Rapunzel—

Panic cuts her legs out from under her at the end of the pier, and Cassandra slams down onto the cold stones of the wharf. A fractured, gasping laugh digs itself out of her chest. She puts her head in her hands, quaking.

“ _Fuck–!_ ”

“I’m sorry.” Sirin’s voice, soft but stretched, frayed at the ends. The air shifts as she sitsbeside Cassandra. “I thought… I’m sorry.”

Cassandra moans into her hands, _beyond_ caring about the spectacle she’s making of herself. “I don’t think anything you could do could make things much _worse!_ ”

_Stop. Stop!_

Panting, she drags her fingers through her curls. “It’s me,” she mutters, “it’s me, I’m the one who—”

“I heard you were injured.”

The edge in her voice is so powerfully _familiar_ that it pulls Cassandra up short. She knows the exact sound of that splintering, guilty shame.

“I– just… my shoulder.” She pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them, shuddering. “Dislocated. It’s fine. Healing… just fine.”

“I didn’t want you involved.” Sirin mirrors her posture, picking at the tattered hem of her cloak. “With any of it. In hindsight I suppose that was foolish, but I– all this strife, all the anguish, I…”

Cassandra clamps her lips together as a watery giggle bubbles up in her throat. It wheezes out despite her best efforts. “You kidnapped Rapunzel _right in front of me._ ”

“Yes– _well_ — in hindsight—”

“What did you think would happen?”

“I assumed you would fetch the guards,” Sirin says, running a hand over her face. “Like anyone– Then we’d close the door in the tunnels and do what we needed to do, and by the time anyone Coronan made it to Janus Point we would’ve been long gone.”

“Would you have killed her?” Cassandra asks quietly.

“The Princess? No.” Sirin sighs. “No. She’s a child.”

Cassandra closes her eyes, sagging with relief. If nothing else, at least her aunt doesn’t want her best friend _dead._

 _My life is a mess,_ she thinks dismally.

“What about midwinter?”

“Sugracha,” Sirin says, voice tight, “did not deign to share her _plans_ with me. If she had—”

“So you didn’t know.” A second wave of relief crashes through her. “About–“

“I knew she had _something_ prepared for midwinter,” Sirin says carefully. “And that it involved the sundrop. But no details; if I had them, I would have warned you—which is, I suppose, why she kept them secret.”

“But– I thought… you wanted Zhan Tiri freed.”

Sirin blinks. “You are my _niece._ Cassandra, I know—” Her breath hitches, and she reaches out to touch Cassandra’s shoulder, light and fleeting as the breeze. “I- I know you may not… feel that it matters much—you were so _young_ when he took you—but– in- in eighteen years– I’ve thought about you every— You matter to me more than _anything._ You’re the only—”

She breaks off with a jagged, crumpling sound, and presses a hand over her eyes. Cassandra freezes.

 _Do something._ Do _something, do_ something, _tell her—_

Tell her _what,_ she doesn’t know, so she just sits and stares like an idiot while Sirin, trembling, fights to regain her composure. Callously silent.

“I do not want t- to impose on you,” Sirin says at last. “I want you to be safe, and happy. And that– that is all. But if… if you…”

“I remember Cornaīn—” and _stars_ why does she even open her mouth “—and– and, and Tath.”

Regret hits her like lightning as Sirin goes still and looks up, her eyes lightless wells of grief, but the horrible impulse seizes control of her mouth again and she stammers, “Only a little—they– I remember playing? In the henge– one of the stones had fallen over, I r- remember—”

Muddled dreams and memories, streaks of color on shards of glass: bright and glittering and out of context. But she remembers _warmth._ Comfort. An ease she’s never felt since.

“I’m sorry– I’m _so,_ I’m so sorry—”

Sirin reaches for her, and Cassandra pitches sideways into her arms. Tears boil up and spill into the rough wool of Sirin’s cloak as a sob wrenches out of her; she cries, spluttering as the crumbling, cracking dam of her heart shatters at last.

“Sorry,” she mumbles again, once the worst of it has ebbed. “I d-don’t normally cry—”

“You fell off it,” Sirin says, with a watery chuckle. “That stone, when you were three. You sprained your wrist, do you remember that?”

“N- no. But that—sounds like me.”

Falling off things since the day she learnt to walk.

Sirin lays a hand against the back of her head, slipping her fingers gently through Cassandra’s curls, and Cassandra sniffles and leans into it.

“I’m proud of you,” Sirin murmurs.

Cassandra winces, sitting up. She hasn’t done anything worth being proud of, by any measure. “What _for?_ ”

“You left. You survived. You aren’t…” Pausing, Sirin wipes at her own eyes, sniffing hard. “They tried so hard to make you Coronan, but you _aren’t._ ”

It should sting more than it does. She spent her whole life _trying_ to be Coronan, and shame lurks in the corners of her soul; the sour taste of failure.

But it’s hard, with both of them still teary and Sirin smiling at her with such fierce, _intent_ pride–

“I’m not Saporian, either. Not… really.”

“Maybe not,” Sirin says, studying her. “But you can be, if that’s what you want.”

She barely knows what being Saporian _means._ Tea with Feldspar hadn’t prepared her for all the realities of– and even now, she feels like a stranger adrift, at a loss, on a great unspoken sea of everything she doesn’t _know._ It’s a barrier she doesn’t know how to cross.

_Ask._

Moira made it sound so _simple._ But nothing ever is.

“Why–” Cassandra wets her lips. It gnaws at her, this question, like a splinter festering at the back of her mind; the need to dig it out and let the infection drain away wars with fear of what she might find _underneath._ “Why… do you worship Zhan Tiri?”

Sirin gives her a puzzled glance, then gets to her feet with a low grunt. “Walk with me,” she says, easier than before. “It’s too cold to sit around nattering about faith.”

Flushing, Cassandra follows her up, and they drift north. The broken statue of Zhan Tiri broods in the distance, a black speck against the first blush of twilight. Sirin holds her silence for a long moment, contemplative, before she says, “Our stories about her aren’t anything like the ones you’ve heard.”

“Corona’s Zhan Tiri is a _he_ , for one thing—”

“Yes, there is that,” Sirin says dryly. “But… hmm. She’s wildness; she’s hunger, and change. And she’s _ours._ That… is what it comes down to, I suppose. You can’t separate Zhan Tiri from Saporia, not without destroying the fabric of who we _are._ ”

“Why?”

“Are you familiar with Sorchā?”

“The… ancient philosopher?”

“Mm.”

“Not… not a _lot._ We read some of her in school– selections from her _Epiphanies,_ but I can’t say I understood… any of it.” It had struck her as a load of self-indulgent and probably drunken nonsense, more than anything. “And I know she introduced the modern calendar–”

“Which translation? Gerhardt?”

“Him, yeah.”

Sirin chuckles, her head tipping with the weight of whatever the joke is; then she says, “Then you _haven’t_ read Sorchā. Did you know she was– or _is,_ as I’ve recently been corrected—one of Zhan Tiri’s scions?”

“She’s– _what._ ”

“The second of them.”

“Like– like _Sugracha?!_ ”

“M _hm._ ” Sirin glances wryly at her, and leaves her a moment of silence to digest this revelation. “She encountered Zhan Tiri as a young woman, and it had a profound influence on her writings. Gerhardt didn’t translate the _Epiphanies_ so much as he butchered it.”

 _You may as well be the next Sorchā._ Oh, sun _above_ —

“So,” Sirin continues briskly, “Sorchā founded the Thorn Syconium, and from that—” her lips twitch “— _seed,_ the rest of Saporia grew. The others… Char Malách, Cathay, both came later. But Zhan Tiri has been ours since the beginning, and we have suffered without her.”

Nothing is ever simple, but she would like it if, just once, her life could stop being _this_ complicated. Cassandra groans.

“ _How_ am I supposed to feel about that.”

“I can’t decide for you,” Sirin says. “Feel however you feel.”

Slouching, she mutters, “I don’t even _know._ ”

“Uncertainty _is_ a feeling.”

 _Is_ it uncertainty? This mire in her thoughts, this feeling of the ground liquifying beneath her feet: something wet squirming against her neck, and thickets spun through her dreams. Stories–

“Change is the only constant, Cassandra.” Sirin reaches out, clasping her wrist. “Allow yourself to think, and feel, whatever you think and feel. Don’t flagellate yourself for not _knowing._ No one ever knows.”

“Do you?”

Sirin rasps; it takes Cassandra a moment to identify the sound as a _laugh,_ low and bitter and empty of humor. “I am,” she murmurs, “the servant of a missing god, and the only thing stronger than my doubt is my desperation. I run from my despair and pray for a summer I do not believe in.”

_So that’s a no._

Cassandra counts her heartbeats as they begin a slow arc back toward the _Zampermin;_ counts the pulse of the sea against the waterfront, counts the fall of their footsteps on the stone.

Doubt and desperation and despair.

_At least it runs in the family._

Swallowing hard, she mumbles, “Is your arm okay?”

“My–” Sirin doesn’t look as though she anticipated this question, an an odd expression trickles over her face as she curls her fingers slowly around her wrist. “Yes. It’s fine.”

“…Is… it?”

It had looked awful in Tárosh, even before the fight in Socona shredded it. Magic, maybe, but damage like that can’t just be _okay_ in a month. Sirin doesn’t look like she’s in pain, just _weary,_ but…

Sirin, catching her anxious glance, sighs. Her hand slides down; she plucks at the fingers of her glove, one by one, and peels it away.

Cassandra gasps.

When she saw it last, Sirin’s hand was crabbed and rotting, but now all that’s left is pale bone and slender black vines. Sirin curls the fingers into a fist and they do not move the way fingers _should:_ the vines flex and coil down like snakes, pulling the little bones with them—

“Zhan Tiri,” Sirin says, in a tone stripped of all inflection as she pushes the hand back into her glove, “…dealt… with it.”

“Does it _hurt?_ ”

“No. Not anymore.”

Cassandra lapses into silence, disturbed. She’s heard plenty of tales about the dangers of magic; the corruption of the body, the fraying of the mind, horrific and disgusting…

And… yet.

“G- good. I’m– glad.”

“May I ask _you_ something?”

“I– alright.”

They are at the end of the pier again, the _Zampermin_ gleaming like a burnished ember as the sun dips against the sea and drenches the world in fire, and Cassandra finds her strides slowing. She isn’t ready to–

“Why haven’t you told the Princess?”

She blanches. “About–“

“About your family, yes.”

There’s no accusation in her tone or her eyes, but guilt licks like flames beneath her skin even so. Cassandra hunches away, staring morosely into the swirling water beneath the pier.

“I’m scared she won’t understand.” The words that hadn’t come when Moira asked her last night flow easily now, burbling up from a deep, icy well in the back of her mind. “She’s been hurt so _badly,_ and she’s so angry with me, a- and– and what if I tell her and _nothing changes?_ ”

Her own thoughts shimmer and soften into Rapunzel’s voice, cruel, gentle whispers. _What happened to your parents is awful, but that doesn’t justify what Sirin has done, what the Separatists do, what_ you _did. Revenge is not the answer. You should have stayed in Herzingen. You shouldn’t have left me, Cass–_

_I’m not sorry. I’m not._

“…If I don’t tell her, at least– at least then I _deserve_ it,” she whispers.

“…Oh, Cassandra–”

Sirin stops altogether, catching her shoulder to bring her to a halt too, and Cassandra swivels around to face her miserably. “What.”

“Don’t do this to yourself,” Sirin says, low, splintering with urgency. “Tell her; if she’s a friend worth having, she will hear you.”

_…and if she isn’t…_

Cassandra looks away, shuffling in place. Sirin squeezes her shoulders, and she hates the pity in the gesture, hates how _comforting_ it feels—

“I should go,” she mumbles. “We’re casting off at sundown–”

“Of course.” Sirin uncurls her fingers slowly, reluctantly, and Cassandra wavers where she stands. “I… have something for you, if you want it.”

“…Yeah. Okay.”

Her expression eases, ever so slightly, as she reaches into her cloak and retrieves a small bundle of fabric. “Morana used to– your mother liked to whittle. She made this when you were… small.”

 _And you kept it,_ Cassandra thinks, as she unfolds the scrap of cloth gingerly. _All these years._

A piece of polished bone falls into her palm. It’s squat, flat, shaped like—

“…What… _is_ it?” Cassandra asks, perplexed. The silhouette of some squashed animal, though _what_ animal, she couldn’t even begin to guess. Something small that a horse stomped on.

Sirin clears her throat. “A frog, apparently. She wasn’t much good at it—”

Of course a frog. A quiet laugh swells in her throat and pops into a sigh; she closes her fingers around the piece, cradling its smooth edges, and closes her eyes. Clumsy, misshapen, but—something her _mother_ whittled for _her._

“Wait– wait here,” she breathes. “Please? I’ll be right back.”

“Of course.”

Nodding, clutching the frog, Cassandra spins away and dashes up the gangplank—across the deck, which is _mercifully_ free of Rapunzel—and charges down into the cabin.

_Whittling, of all things._

She nestles the frog carefully on her pillow, then crouches to rummage through her locker. _Dagger, dagger, oil, whetstone, dagger, shirt, vest, socks, socks,_ why _do I have so many_ daggers _— there!_

With a triumphant “ _Ha!,_ ” she scoops the carving from the folds of the cleaning rag where she left it, kicks the locker closed, and hurries back the way she came.

“Here,” Cassandra says, as she clatters down the gangplank again and Sirin turns away from her contemplation of the waves; she holds out the carving without preamble, all the awkwardness of the gesture catching up with her like a slap across the face, but she wants, she _wants_ — “I– it’s, it’s nothing special, but I– I…”

Sirin takes it with far more reverence than the half-finished little owl deserves. It’s crouched forward, the vague suggestion of wings _just_ beginning to rise roughed out of the wooden block; it stares straight ahead, head tilted at a slight angle, the way Owl looks when he’s listening for the rustle of a mice under the snow; the feathers of its breast smooth down into unworked wood.

“You made this?” Sirin says faintly, turning it in her fingers.

“Well it’s– it’s not finished.” Cassandra flushes. “But I- I also—whittling helps me think.”

“It’s _marvelous_.”

“I’ll finish it for you when we get back,” Cassandra mumbles. _I’ll come back. I’m coming back._ “It, um. It matters to me too. That you’re my aunt. Just… so you know.”

_Please stop talking._

Sirin saves her from her own inane babble by hugging her, and Cassandra burrows into her embrace as much to shut herself up as anything else.

“Be safe.” The base of the owl digs into her back as Sirin’s grip on her tightens; one last, urgent clutch. “Be _careful._ ”

“I will.” Her eyes are dry when Sirin lets her go, but there’s a hard lump in her throat and a familiar, dusty tightness around her lungs. “You– you be careful, too.”

“I always am.”

Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes; stale pain, the ghosts of too many _last_ goodbyes, maybe, clutter its edges.

“I’ll– see you,” Cassandra says.

Then, taking a deep, deep breath, she turns and makes her way up the gangplank again, and goes to find Moira.

_I need paper. And a quill._


	3. Chapter 3: All My Love You Tried to Take

###  **Chapter 3: All My Love You Tried to Take**

_Dear Rapunzel,_

_This is probably going to be a mess. Sorry. I don’t really know where to start, and Moira only has so much extra paper, so you’ll just have to bear with me, please._

_I’m sorry for running out on you this morning—or well. Yesterday, or last week or however long it takes to finish this stupid letter. Regardless it was stupid. I just– do you remember how I yelled at you on Unification Day? I was so upset and mad at everything, and it wasn’t even your fault—but you were THERE, and it all just came out at you. And well. I felt like that again, right then, and I didn’t know what to do except leave, because otherwise— I’m just so ANGRY, Raps. Not at you, it’s NOT your fault, but all I want is to get it out of me and I can’t so it just piles up and piles—_

_This is not… what I meant to say. Sorry, is the point._

_I’m just scared of losing my temper. And then, too, it’s all just—there’s so much. Stuff. Where do I even begin?_

_I guess—the night Sirin escaped, I snuck down to the dungeons to talk to her. I had this idiotic idea that maybe I’d get something out of her that no one else could and then—I wanted to do SOMETHING to make up for stealing the Journal, you know?_

_(And that is. A whole other thing and I really do NOT want to talk about it. If you want to know the whole story you can ask Moira, she loves gloating.)_

_Anyway… It was a stupid idea. But I went to talk to Sirin, and that’s when I found out she was my aunt and also. Other stuff._

_My parents were innocent, Raps._

_I mean– they did sell crops that made people sick, but they didn’t poison them. There was just something wrong with the crops that year. People got sick all over Saporia, too. My father wrote to the palace to warn them, and they arrested him and my mother and a half dozen other farmers from the area and executed all of them as traitors. Over a natural disaster. And then they used your hair to heal the sick in Herzingen and left everyone in Saporia to rot._

_It killed my cousin—Sirin’s daughter. Tathēdora. My mother was sick when they arrested her. Hundreds of people died in Artois and Alcorsīa. Some are STILL sick._

_And it’s not even a secret! There are_ _books_ _about the plague of 1655! I learnt about it in school without ever making the connection—but_ ~~_my d_ ~~ _the Commander knew. When I was a kid he told me that Sholar Hároham confessed, but he never showed me the record of the actual confession. It’s not in the case file. It should be. I asked to see it right before I left, and he refused. Because he KNEW, and he hid it from me on purpose._

_My adoption wasn’t even LEGAL! I shouldn’t have ever even gone to an orphanage—I should’ve been put in Sirin’s custody after my parents were arrested! That’s the LAW!_

_Everything—my whole LIFE has been one huge lie, and then—I didn’t lie about the convent, he really did decide to just throw me away, after doing ALL of this. That’s why I left._

_It’s just been one thing after another since Tárosh and I wish you and Varian hadn’t got caught in the crossfires, but I’m not sorry for leaving, I’m not sorry for joining the fight in Socona, I’m not sorry for stealing the Journal. What else was I supposed to do? Just go to the convent? Come clean about the theft and let them hang me like they did my parents? Pretend it doesn’t matter like the Commander taught me to? It DOES matter!_

_I feel so bad that you got hurt. But there’s nothing I’ve done that I would change if I had the chance. So I’m not sorry, and_ _I’m so m_ _—_

The rest of that paragraph collapses into jags of ink; whatever thoughts it contained reduced to an illegible black streak.

_No. Never mind that last part, it’s stupid._

_I’m still not ready to talk about… everything. It’s too much, my head’s all messed up still—so that’s why I’m writing this. Please don’t ask me about it. We can talk about anything else if you want, just… please not this, not yet._

_Love,_

_Cass._

Tears knot together in Rapunzel’s throat as she folds the letter, and she has to swallow several times before she can breathe again.

After– after _Sirin,_ she had feared she’d lost Cass forever. That Cass would never stop shoving her away, and in the end Rapunzel would never learn why her best friend abandoned her, would spend the rest of her life wondering if Cass had been lying to her from the beginning, a Separatist all along—

She had spent the night curled up with Eugene in his hammock, tracing the ridges of Pascal’s spine with her fingertips while they tried to comfort her. “Look, Sunshine,” Eugene had said, so quiet his voice was less a sound than a rumble against her ear, “I… know how much you love Cass, and I know you want her back, but—she _did_ betray you.”

“I still believe in her.”

“I just– I don’t want to see you get hurt anymore. Cass—sweetheart, when someone shows you who they really are, then…”

“I’m _not_ giving up on her.”

But there had been a hollowness to the promise, a ragged splintering of _doubt,_ because what if Eugene was _right?_ Faced with a choice between Rapunzel and the woman who kidnapped her and tried to free Zhan Tiri and _murdered people,_ Cass had chosen Sirin. She hadn’t even _hesitated._

After a while she sank into a sweltering furnace of nightmares, and Eugene must have drifted off too, because he was dead asleep and snoring when she awoke this morning. Rapunzel had gingerly disentangled herself from him, clambered out of the hammock—and come face-to-face with Cass.

 _Cass_ , frozen on her tip-toes like a thief in a watchman’s lantern. _Cass,_ clutching her letter. _Cass._

After a few breathless, rigid seconds, Cass pressed a finger to her lips with a glance at Eugene, and then motioned for Rapunzel to follow her out of the hold. Now they’re crammed, side-by-side, into a tiny compartment at the prow of the ship.

Cassandra hasn’t said a word yet. She pressed the letter into Rapunzel’s hands and then drew her knees to her chest and went still as stone while Rapunzel read it. Tension snarls up her shoulders and trembles in the sharp angle of her neck; the same violent anguish tears her normally tidy handwriting into an anxious skitter, scarred by flecks of ink and scratched out words. Writing all this and _sitting_ here while Rapunzel read it must have cost her so much.

Rapunzel’s heart aches for her.

_Oh, Cass. Why didn’t you just tell me? We could have figured it out and fixed it together. You wouldn’t have needed to run away._

She tucks the letter the pocket of her skirt and leans into Cass, closing the last bit of distance between them so she can wrap her best friend up in her arms; Cass makes a startled noise and jerks, her head snapping up—a fine tremor wracks her shoulders—

“I’m so _sorry,_ Cass.”

“It– it’s not—”

“I know it’s not my fault,” Rapunzel whispers. “But I’m sorry it _happened._ It’s so–” She can’t even _imagine._ Like how she felt when Eugene told her of his close brush with the gallows, how they’d nearly hanged him over a _tiara_ —but worse. “It’s just so _sad._ I can’t– I can’t believe my Dad let that happen.”

Cassandra grunts, sitting like a statue while Rapunzel strokes her back. The letter, safe in Rapunzel’s pocket, crinkles loudly.

_What are you thinking, Cass?_

It doesn’t seem like Cass is going to tell her. As the silence lengthens and misery sets into Cassandra’s expression like water hardening into ice, Rapunzel leans on her and ponders. Maybe she’s brooding about whatever Sirin said to her yesterday; the woman did not seem very _nice,_ even without taking into account all the horrible things she’s done. What had she wanted with Cass? To question her about what happened at Janus Point, berate her for ruining the ritual? Had she been like Gothel—full of soft words that sounded kind until you thought about them twice?

All at once, it strikes her how _vulnerable_ Cassandra is right now, and awful fear crushes her. Sir Peter let his daughter down right when she needed him most, and all of Corona turned its back on her and drove her into this den of Separatist pirates and witches who had been all too eager to take advantage of her desperation. Who knows what else they’ve been telling her—

 _Sirin might not even be her real aunt!_ The thought streaks the clouds of her worry like lightning, fading into a thunderous echo of the pit that opened in her stomach six months ago when the pieces fell into place and she realized that Gothel had kidnapped her. _Sugracha lied—maybe Sirin is lying, too!_

_If she’s really Cassandra’s aunt, why didn’t she come forward before? Why is this the first time Cass heard from her? Nothing was stopping her from going to Herzingen to visit!_

Shivering, Rapunzel cages the accusation behind her teeth. If someone had climbed into her tower seven months ago and told her the truth about Gothel, she would never have believed them. Probably she would have hammered them in the face with her skillet before they even got a word in.

Knowing Cass, if she took Sirin at her word, then she _won’t_ appreciate Rapunzel poking holes in the woman’s story. She needs to wait for Cassandra to figure it out by herself, no matter how hard—

“Don’t tell Eugene.” Cassandra’s voice cuts through the silence like cracking ice: fractured and sharp-edged. “Please.”

“…But I tell Eugene everything.”

“I know y– Rapunzel.” Cassandra closes her eyes and inhales with a deep whistling noise. “This is _really personal information,_ ” she says tightly. “I need to be– it’s _mine_ to– it isn’t something I’m comfortable sharing. Not… yet. I’m asking you to respect that.”

Dread sinks into her. Months ago, when Cassandra asked her to keep their sword lessons in the labyrinth a secret, she _had_ waited a few days to tell Eugene about it—but that had been such a little thing, harmless fun she and Cass had together, and overshadowed by the black rocks and Eugene’s botched proposal.

 _This…_ This is something _big._ This is a huge, ugly secret Cass wants her to keep, and what will Eugene think if she tells him everything is fine between her and Cassandra now, without explaining _why?_

“I can’t just _lie_ to him,” she says, squirming.

“I’m not asking you to lie, just… tell him we talked about it but the details are… sensitive.”

“But… _why?_ Cass–”

“Because I don’t— _Raps,_ ugh.” Groaning, Cass drops her face into her hands. Tension marches down her shoulders. “Remember the conversation we had in the cave, during the blizzard? When you told me you sometimes miss Gothel.”

“Y- yes?”

Cassandra huffs. “How would you feel if I went and blabbed about it to Moira?” she asks, lifting her head to look Rapunzel in the eye. When Rapunzel blanches, she nods. “ _Exactly._ That’s something private that you told me in confidence, and it’d be wrong for me to gossip about it.”

“But it’s– Cass, this is _different._ ”

“I don’t see how.”

“I _trust_ Eugene,” Rapunzel says, startled by the mulish look creeping over Cassandra’s face. Can’t she _see?_ “He’s a good person. Plus he’s my boyfriend! We share everything with each other, and- and besides, it’s not _gossiping_ —this affected him too!”

Every worried glance, every concerned smile he’s given her in the two months since Cass left swims behind her eyes. Eugene has _just_ as much a right to know—

But Cassandra jerks away. “Well, fine,” she says curtly. “Fine. I’m going to breakfast.”

“…Cass? Wait–”

Jaw tight, Cassandra pushes open the compartment door and unfolds herself into the wider space of the cabin. She steps aside, holding the door with one hand so Rapunzel can follow her out—which is better than _running_ at least—

“ _Cass,_ ” Rapunzel whispers, reaching for her.

“What do you want me to say, Rapunzel?” The compartment door clatters shut. Cassandra clasps her hands behind her back and squares her shoulders. Stiff. Upright. Like her father. “If you’re gonna tell Eugene then… _okay._ I can’t stop you.”

Alarmed, Rapunzel makes a grab for her elbow before Cass can step away. _Not again. She can’t leave like this again!_ “I just want to—”

“Just want to _what?_ ” Cass snarls. She crowds Rapunzel against the bulkhead as her voice sinks into a low, harsh whisper. “I tried to tell you on day _one._ You didn’t want to hear it. Fine. You spend all week acting like I don’t exist, _fine._ You’ve been through a lot. _I get it._ But _I’ve_ been through a lot, too, and d’you know how I spent _my_ week? Worried about _you._ Thinking about _you._ Trying to figure out how to explain all this crap to _you!_ ”

She yanks her arm out of Rapunzel’s grip and backs away, panting. The glitter of tears in her eyes keeps Rapunzel pinned to the bulkhead.

Cass doesn’t _cry._

“So you–” Her lips peel away from clenched teeth, and she forces out a sharp, percussive breath. “So you, you know, you went _straight_ to the hardest— and all I wanted was a little more t- _time._ But you– dropping _that question_ wasn’t good enough for you! Why couldn’t you have just said _sure, Cass, I trust you?!_ We could have talked about why I left and what I did after and not- not why don’t I _regret_ throwing my whole _life_ in the _garbage!_ I’m sorry I don’t feel the way you want me to feel! _It’s complicated!_ ”

“Cass—”

“And well– now you _know._ ” Cassandra laughs raggedly. “I hope it makes you feel better, Raps, I _really_ do, because it- it _sucks_ for me.”

Sniffling, she wipes her eyes on her sleeves.

“So—s-so– So. Yeah. Breakfast. Tell Fitzherbert whatever you _want._ ”

A bleak smile frosts her lips as she shuffles backwards—out of reach—and then turns on her heel and stalks away. The air thins; Rapunzel slides down the bulkhead until her legs hit the deck. Nausea ripples through her. It hurts to breathe; her skin crawls with the sensation of a thousand phantasmal insects, a guilty march—

_She’s mad at me._

She clamps her eyes shut, pressing her bandaged fingers over her lips to quell the frantic jags of her breath. Cass is gone and her anger lingers like a living thing, jabbing into the corners of her mind.

_Why…?_

_What did I do wrong…?_

Hot tears drip from her eyes, and an answer quakes and stutters free from the turbulent depths.

_Nothing._

It is a sharp, resentful, scorching twist away from well-worn paths of guilt, and Rapunzel goes rigid as it hisses through her mind. She grips the fabric of her skirt, gasping. This is a new kind of pain: charred and angry. Flint to the clawing steel of Cassandra’s anger.

 _I am not the bad guy here,_ she thinks tentatively, quivering. _Cass—_

No.

_…Yes. It’s Cass who’s in the wrong._

Is that true? She turns it over and over, studying its unforgiving edges. The darkly gleaming indignation in its depths. A black diamond of a thought.

_Yes. She is._

She does feel _sorry_ for Cass. Sympathetic sadness floods the chambers of her heart, and she wants to gather Cassandra into her arms and hold her forever and ever until all the pain is gone; but—but it is not her _fault._ Cass even _said_ so, so she has _no right_ to be angry—

Shuddering, Rapunzel squeezes her eyes shut. This feels— _wrong,_ a sticky anger drenched in shame even deeper than the tar that had smothered her after Eugene’s ill-timed proposal—but it also feels _right._ Clarifying. Cleansing, in a way. Everyone keeps telling her that she’s _allowed_ to feel angry, or upset, _allowed_ to feel ugly emotions, so maybe— _maybe_ –

Maybe it’s time she listened.

Cassandra… _chose_ to leave Herzingen and throw in her lot with rebellious murderers and pirates and witches, and who only _knows_ what else! What did she _think_ would happen? _She_ put herself in this situation in the first place! Now she has to just- just—!

_She can deal with the consequences for her decisions!_

_I will not let her make_ me _the bad guy._

But she can’t— _won’t_ —stomp around and yell, either. Getting mad never solved anything, did it? She can’t get through to Cass if she gives into her worst impulses, even if she _would_ like to grab Cassandra by the shoulders and shake her until she snaps out of it.

_How can I reach her?_

Groaning, Rapunzel slams her head against the bulwark. Bright stars burst in her vision, and she searches hopelessly for answers in the grain of the wooden beams supporting the ceiling.

The last time Cass got mad at her, Mom advised her to _back off_ until Cass was ready to talk—but she doesn’t think that will work this time. Come to think of it, she’s not sure it even _did_ work before, because that hadn’t truly been her fault, either. Oh, sure, she could have been less _pushy_ about the Day of Hearts, but her efforts to include Cass in the celebration wouldn’t have been a problem at all if Cass hadn’t been _conspiring against Corona_ at the time!

…Conspiring, specifically, to steal the Journal of Herz der Sonne.

_Hmm._

Thoughtfully, Rapunzel pulls the letter out of her pocket and skims until she reaches the part about the Journal. It’s the one thing Cassandra _refuses_ to discuss. The reason she blew up today, and yesterday, and on the Day of Hearts.

Maybe _that’s_ the key.

If she can figure out how the theft of the Journal is linked to Cassandra’s anger, she can unravel the whole mystery and save her best friend from the dark path she’s chosen. But if _Cass_ won’t talk about it…

Anxiety feathers in her gut, hot enough to burn her up if she lets herself fall into it. Rapunzel gulps.

There’s nothing for it.

She needs to talk to Moira Caine.

## ❦

 _I cannot_ believe _her._

But underneath her seething fury is the coal-black absence of surprise, and a fermenting self-disgust: nothing matters to Rapunzel as much as Eugene, and Cassandra _knows_ that. Not secrecy, not boundaries, not Cassandra and certainly not the mangled, messy contents of her heart.

She should have known.

If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with nightmares of how _Rapunzel_ might react—if she hadn’t tricked herself into believing Rapunzel would still give a damn about _her_ feelings, after everything—

She storms right past the galley and hits the ladder to the main deck before she remembers _breakfast,_ but the thought of turning around for food makes her stomach roil. How long until Eugene finds out? Five minutes? Ten? An hour—?

“— _oof!_ ”

She crashes into something large and solid at the top of the ladder and bounces onto the coaming with a dizzy _thump._ She gulps air. Anxious fractals spin in her eyes; Otter blinks down at her in mild confusion, and the hurricane in her mind stutters.

“M- morning,” she gasps. “Sorry—”

He puts out a hand to help her to her feet, frowning. “You alright?”

“Fine, yeah, just–” She rubs her eyes, swaying. _Shouldn’t have lost my temper. Should have tried harder to explain–_ “Sorry,” she says again, loud enough to drown out the muttering of her thoughts. “I’ll… I’ll get out of your way.”

“…Mhm.”

Cassandra shuffles aside, embarrassment sizzling under her face, and Otter yawns and stumps down the ladder into the cabin. Headed for breakfast, then bed after his overnight watch, probably.

 _But I trust Eugene._ Echoes in the breeze eddying past her neck. Rapunzel’s eyes, bright and green and confused about why anything else might matter but that. What right does _Cassandra_ have not to trust him, what do _her_ feelings or her privacy matter in the face of Rapunzel’s unwavering faith?

 _So I fall on my sword for her,_ she thinks. _Or I don’t and nothing changes. I’m the problem. I’m the bad friend. I’m the_ traitor, _and it’s my fault we fall apart._

She shudders, and slams the hatch.

The _Zampermin_ glides along in a brisk easterly wind, which tosses her curls and makes the copper sails tented overhead _snap;_ the sky unfolds everywhere, still fired by dawn around the edges. Early sunlight gilds the ship in molten gold. They are skimming along the southern edge of the Pingoras, halfway to Vardaros, and she has nowhere to _go._

“Cass! Hey! Over here!”

Varian.

He’s perched on a crate tucked up against the stairs leading to the aft deck, waving excitedly, and the vice gripping her chest eases as she veers toward him. There are a half-dozen books open in his lap, all piled on top of each other, and Ruddiger dozes in a furry grey heap around Varian’s ankles.

“Hey, kid. Can you actually read stuff like that?”

“I’m cross-referencing,” Varian says, juggling books. “Mael lent me these—she _wrote_ this one!—and here’s the schematics for the ship to go along with— have you _seen_ this?!”

Eyes shining, he flaps one hand up at the domed sails, and Cassandra chuckles as she settles against the bannister. “It’s pretty cool, huh? Don’t tell Moira I said that, she’s already _way_ too full of herself—”

“It’s _amazing!!_ ” He bounces in place, jostling Ruddiger and earning himself a disgruntled chitter. “—Sorry, buddy– but _look!”_ Mael’s schematics float to the top of his pile, and Cassandra gamely cranes her neck so she can look. Intricate sketches crawl across the page—mechanical joins, folded machinery, layers of gears marked with little arrows to indicate the directions of their rotation. It’s all… very complicated.

“What am I looking at, kid?”

“These are the core mechanisms,” Varian says. He runs his fingertips over the lines with something close to reverence. “See, both masts are a, a, _hn–_ bundle! Of timber rods packed around this machinery, right?”

“So they fold up or trim down.” Cassandra props her chin in her hand, glad to have _something_ to contribute; even if the fiddly mechanical details seem, to her, a little beside the point. It all _works,_ and they’re not tumbling out of the sky to their deaths. She’s not inclined to question how. “And then they can be braced into position.”

“Yeah! But the really interesting thing is—” More pages rustle as he shuffles the books again. “—see that shimmery stuff where the joints come together? _There._ ”

He jabs a finger toward the slanted beam of the nearest mast, and Cassandra squints. The hazy opalescence of the _Zampermin’s_ magic makes it difficult to pick out the fine details, but… “Kinda?”

“That’s _bismuth!_ Which, hn, I thought was kind of _weird,_ because it’s not really uh, that strong? So I looked it up…” A weighty volume rises to the top of the pile. She peers over his shoulder while Varian rifles through it, and realizes with a jolt of amusement that it’s a Saporian-Coronan dictionary. “…And the Saporian word for it’s sh- _shes-am-car?_ —”

“Shēśamchar.”

“…Right! Shes– shuz— _shusamchar._ Shēśamchar!” A fierce scowl knits his brow, and he mutters the word under his breath a few times until he gets the hang of the unfamiliar sounds. “Which means—”

“Burning stone.”

Varian blinks at her with such a _wounded_ look in his eyes that she ducks, abashed, and mutters, “Sorry. Go on.”

“It means burning stone,” Varian says, more snippily than before, “which got me thinking about, um, Char Malách and I looked _that_ up, and it means—” Cassandra schools her expression into dutiful, patient interest when he frowns at her again. “—something like ‘splendorous burning,’ right? There’s a _connection._ So-o, I borrowed _this_ —”

“…is that… Helcha’s _prayer book?_ ” It is. Cassandra has seen that dog-eared little volume tucked into Helcha’s pocket or on the table during meals or open in her lap before bedtime often enough to recognize the worn pages, and her worries melt away for an instant of happy incredulity. “Hold on, Varian– are you _teaching yourself Saporian?_ ”

“Yeah,” Varian says, with an air of long-suffering patience; then, a touch defensively, “ _You_ know Saporian—”

“Oh, I’m not judging.” Grinning, she reaches over the bannister to ruffle his hair. “It’s just– you’re on a ship full of Saporians, you know? Why not just… ask one of us to teach you?”

From the look on his face this hadn’t even occurred to him, but his surprise breaks into delight in a heartbeat. “I _could!_ That’s a great idea! Thanks!”

He teeters on his crate like he’s about to leap off and race across the deck to do just that, so Cassandra clears her throat and says, “So—bismuth and Char Malách, huh?”

“ _Hn–_ right, right! So, so- so I knew…” Leaning in close, he drops his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “Mael told me Helcha’s a witch. N- not like— _you_ know. Char Malách is her patron.”

Cassandra bites the tip of her tongue and nods gravely. “I’ve heard.”

“So! I asked her if I could borrow this and she said sure if I gave it back before lunch so I’ve been copying some things down and, anyway, there’s this poem, uh… here! That first line is—it’s something like, uh– ‘Crēshēśamchar,’ and then ‘Golden Lord Inferno.’” He looks up at her quizzically.

 _Helcha would be the one to ask about this, kid,_ she thinks, but she’s not about to shoot him down while he’s buoyed up by his enthusiasm; she cranes her neck to read over the verse again, frowning. “There’s… in Saporian, a lot of different names for the gods, so… I- I _think_ that’s referring to Char Malách himself, from context. But check with Helcha to make sure.”

Relaxing, Varian snaps the booklet shut. “I _thought_ so! Bismuth is one of Char Malách’s _things_ just like silver is one of Turul’s!”

“…One of what now?”

All the light flickers out of his eyes. His shoulders hike towards his ears as he taps his fingers over his pile of books and draws out a delicate scrap of parchment. Most of the page is taken up by an ornate illustration of a hawk on the brink of taking flight from its perch inside a crescent moon. A tattered fragment. Varian smooths it out somberly against Helcha’s prayer book.

“This belonged to my Dad. It’s… it’s a piece of a scroll that recorded hymns– _incantations_ for unlocking the moonstone’s power. This– the bird represents Turul. The moon-spirit who created it.” He falters, and then whispers. “Sugracha. Told me.”

“…O- _oh._ ”

It’s the first time she’s heard him refer to Sugracha by name since midwinter, and maybe it’s a good sign that he _can,_ now, but— His hand quakes as he lifts it to rub his scarred cheek, staring across the deck with flat, vacant eyes.

Cassandra reaches down to squeeze his shoulder, ice hardening in the pit of her stomach. “…Kid–”

Varian sucks in a deep breath, and says in a rush, “Anyway the black rocks react to silver because silver’s, it’s like how if you put salt in water the salt dissolves and then you’ve got a saline solution, right? Silver can–hn, um, _carry_ Turul’s magic, so…”

“…Okay,” she says. “Okay, so bismuth… carries Char Malách’s magic?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking relieved to have arrived at the _point._ “I- I _think_ so, anyway. There’s magic in the figurehead too—did you know it _glows?_ —but I asked Mael and she said bits of it are made out of an alloy of gold and _bismuth,_ so… it fits.”

“Clever.”

“More than _that_ —” Perking up again, Varian drums his knuckles against Helcha’s prayer book and _shakes_ the shadows out of his eyes. “You know what this _means?_ ”

“…That… you figured out how the ship flies?”

He gives her another one of his long-suffering looks, and Cassandra grins, unabashed. “It _means_ there’s _rules!_ You know, before I– uh, _everything—_ I kept thinking magic was just, sort of, you know, _whatever?_ When I was trying to figure out what the rocks are made of—which I still don’t really know, by the way!—I got so frustrated because it didn’t make any sense– it just seemed so _random—!_ But this… This stuff follows, it’s not _alchemy,_ it’s got, hn, different rules—but there _are_ rules! And if I can figure those out, I can figure _magic_ out. I really can do this, Cass!”

“Oho, I didn’t doubt _that_ for a second,” Cassandra says loftily, which makes his face go blotchy pink. “But! Good work.”

The praise makes him puff up with pride, beaming, and then he’s off again: dashing through the pages of his hoarded literature while he chatters about Demanitus’s cyphers and Old Coronan and other possible connections to Saporian theory, with more than a few gushing detours to exclaim over the engineering of the _Zampermin._ If Cassandra’s any judge, the fascinating puzzle of the ship has done him more good than her efforts and Lance’s and Mael’s _combined._

She nods along, stepping in now and then to correct his atrocious Saporian pronunciation but mostly listening, happy to provide an audience and, if she’s honest with herself, grateful for the distraction from her own problems.

Varian has just rounded the corner away from other alloys of bismuth and into whether Moira might let him set up a small lab in the cargo hold when Lance totters his way up from the cabins with a tray balanced on one arm. He ambles over to them, calling out greetings to the crew in clumsy but enthusiastic Saporian, and plops down on the deck next to Varian’s crate.

“…and Lady Caine’s just kind of _scary_ so, I don’t know, I was hoping you could ask her for me? Hey, Lance.”

“Morning, Cass, Varian,” Lance says. “How long you been up?”

“I- I slept!”

Cassandra coughs into her fist to hide her amusement, and Lance lifts his eyebrows. “Mm- _hm._ Eat some breakfast, little man, it’s not good to think on an empty stomach.”

“Hey–!”

Grinning, Lance presents the tray with a greater insistence. It’s laden with toast and jam, sliced eggs and the usual excess of salmon jerky, a bowl of apple chips—one of which he pops into his own mouth and crunches with relish. “You shoulda seen him when the ship bounced,” he says, catching Cassandra’s eye. “Running all over the deck like a maniac! Would’ve fallen off if Mael hadn’t grabbed him—”

“I was _excited,_ ” Varian says primly, scooping up a handful of chips and passing half of them down to Ruddiger. “You weren’t any better.”

“We-ell, no. Didn’t almost pitch myself over the railing, though.” Lance chuckles. “But… ahh, y’know. Heard plenty of rumors about Lady Caine’s _flying ship_ in the past couple years; never thought I’d get to actually—” he twirls a piece of salmon jerky through the air “— _be on it._ ”

“Why didn’t you come out to see it, Cass?”

“Oh, I– I just had things to do, kid. Plus I’ve seen it before, so–”

Cassandra shrugs. She’d spent the evening holed up in her bunk, writing the letter. Trying to, anyway. In practice it had been a lot of staring at the bulkhead and gnawing on the end of Moira’s quill until she managed to scrape another word or two out of the congealing mess of her thoughts. The bounce hadn’t registered as anything but a turbulent splatter of ink in the margins and a muttered curse.

“Next time, though.” Smirking, she leans over the banister and whispers, “Don’t fall off the ship, Varian.”

“I’m not _planning_ on it—”

“But, seriously,” Lance says, “did you get any sleep last night, buddy?”

“Um. Nnno.” Sheepishly, Varian crams a whole piece of toast into his mouth, and crumbs spray past his lips as he adds, “But I really did try! Ish jush–”

“Chew your food, kid.”

He rolls his eyes, works his jaw, and gulps like he’s _trying_ to choke to death on his toast. “ _It’s just_ I had a lot to think about! Wish it hadn’t been so dark when we left, I couldn’t see anything right! And besides even when I _do_ sleep it’s— well it’s fine.”

“No, finish that thought,” Lance says. “It’s what?”

 _Bad._ That’s written in the shadow that falls into his eyes and the twitching, evasive glance across the deck; in his jittery shrug and the flutter of his fingers over his books. “Just… bad dreams,” Varian mumbles. “It’s– it’s fine. I’m just trying to um. Get on with things.”

Lance sets a hand against his back and, with a gentle push, sways him back and forth on the crate. “Hey,” he says quietly. “You’ve been real brave about all of this. But remember, you ever want to talk about it, or need some help… you can ask for it. We’ve got you.”

“Th- thanks.” Flushing, Varian shoves another piece of toast into his mouth. “Um– I’m fine.”

“Vardaros’ll be good,” Lance adds. “Take your mind right off… everything. It’s a great city! Bustling, beautiful… full of stuff to do. You’ll love it.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Grew up there. Wait’ll you see the _canals_ …”

Lance folds his arms behind his head and leans back against the aftcastle to ramble on about the many and varied virtues of the city, and though she knows he’s only doing it to put Varian at ease, Cassandra tries to enjoy it, too. She’s never left Corona before. Until a month ago it hadn’t even occurred to her to _want_ to.

But nagging at the back of her mind is the thought of Moira’s _agenda._ Whatever ulterior motive she has for stopping _there_ first, instead of heading straight for Quintonia. Something dangerous—something to do with the Separatists. Eldora, and the…

…the… _war._

 _Eldora. Errands in Vardaros._ _Help from the plains._ Like stones, skipping across the surface of her thoughts. Cassandra grips the banister as the blurry pieces twitch into focus. _You need to_ count _on Eldora getting involved._

And what had Moira said when they learnt of Gilbert’s coup? _How bad is it for_ us? _—_ and then, _Nothing we can do about it_ now _._

That had been right _before_ she volunteered the _Zampermin_ for the long journey to Aphelion.

 _Moira,_ who’s traveled all over, who’s _friends_ with the Duchess of Quintonia and well-informed of the politics surrounding Corona’s nascent civil war. Who better to rally support abroad?

_We’re Saporian envoys._

And if Rapunzel is aboard the _Zampermin,_ she’s not in Ingvarr asking Queen Morgiana to send in a battalion to crush Corona’s rebellion. Cassandra closes her eyes, furious with herself for missing it before.

_Stars above._

## ❦

When Eugene gets to the end of the letter, he whistles, long and low, and mutters, “ _Wow._ ”

He slumps against the bulwark, tilting his head to study the checkered pattern of sunlight falling through the big grate in the middle of the hold. They’re sitting on one of the long, heavy crates of bolts for the giant arbalests mounted in the war deck, and fragments of conversations in Saporian spill in with the light. Rapunzel nestles into him, wishing his warmth could burn away the awfulness of the whole situation.

“She’s hurting so _much,_ Eugene,” she says. Pascal, lazing on her knee, offers up a sluggish squeak. “…I wish I knew how to help her.”

“Well, I… gotta admit, I didn’t imagine anything like _this._ I mean, sheesh, I knew Corona came down on lawbreakers pretty hard but this is… something else, huh?”

“I just can’t believe Dad would _let_ something like that happen.”

Rapunzel whispers it into his sleeve. Her tears ran dry sometime during her frantic stumble down to the hold to wake Eugene, leaving behind a dusty ache and the growing conviction of pieces _missing._ There has to be more to the story. Her father—her stern, gentle, _loving_ father—would never have sentenced innocent people to death.And besides, if the plague of sixteen fifty-five really _were_ the same sickness the Hárohams had inflicted on Herzingen, wouldn’t someone have _noticed?_ Rapunzel might not have any direct experience with poisonings _or_ plagues, but to think the doctors who treated the sick couldn’t have discerned the difference…

It just doesn’t seem very _likely,_ that’s all.

She frets until Eugene slips his arm around her, then sinks into his embrace with muffled distress. “Either way, Sunshine, that was a long time ago,” he says gently. “He’s not the same person he was then; I mean, he did pardon _me,_ after all. People do change.”

“Cass changed,” Rapunzel mumbles.

“She… did.”

 _Cass._ So caught up in her anger and bitterness that she’s lost sight of what’s _right_ —even if it is all true, somehow, Cass went and helped to start a _war._ Eight innocent people who were killed almost twenty years ago can’t be worth the countless lives that will be lost when the Separatists tear Corona apart—had Cassandra thought of _that_ at all before she leapt into the rebellion in Socona? Had it been on her mind when she helped Moira steal the Journal?

Worrying at her lip, she says, “I just need– I have to find a way to get _through_ to her, Eugene. Before this goes any further.”

“Ah,” Eugene says, in the careful, apologetic tone she has become so familiar with in the past few weeks, “Sunshine, I’m… not sure you _can._ ”

“Why not?”

“It just seems pretty clear that she’s picked her side. She left you, threw away her life in Herzingen, even this— sweetheart, she’s not _sorry._ She said right here she’d do it all again, even knowing how much it hurt you. I just—”

“She’s still my _friend._ ”

“Sometimes you’ve got to let people _go,_ Rapunzel. You’ve got to put yourself first— _she_ certainly has.”

Stiffening, Rapunzel wriggles out from beneath his arm so she can look him straight in the eye. “I _am_ putting myself first,” she insists. “I’m not going to feel bad for things that aren’t my fault. I won’t let her yell at me or treat me like I’m a bad person just because she’s angry. But I’m also not going to stop _trying_ to reach her.” The righteous clarity of her bout of anger has softened, but Rapunzel holds her new convictions close. It feels _good._ Much better than wallowing in guilt like she had done after Unification Day. “I need you to understand that, Eugene. She’s my _friend_ and putting me first doesn’t mean leaving her behind. It won’t _ever_ mean that.”

Eugene gazes silently back at her. After a moment the intensity of his concern becomes too much, and she glances away, blowing loose wisps of hair out of her face.

“I _know_ you don’t want me to get hurt,” she says, making no effort to staunch the frustration bleeding into her voice. _Why can’t he understand?!_ “I _know_ you don’t trust her, Eugene, and maybe right now I don’t trust her either—but I’m not helpless, I don’t _need_ you to protect me. And I have to do this. Friends _don’t_ leave friends behind.”

“Just promise me that you’ll take care of yourself first, and try to help her second,” Eugene murmurs.

“I will,” she says, and it’s not quite a lie. Rapunzel won’t take any _unnecessary_ risks, and besides—it’s _Cass._ Misguided or not—she and Cass are _friends,_ and that comes first. Smiling, she scoops Pascal onto her shoulder as she gets to her feet. “I’m going to go above deck. Get some air.”

_Talk to Moira Caine._

But admitting _that_ probably qualifies as _not putting herself first_ in Eugene’s book, so she’ll keep that information to herself until after she’s done. Save him the worrying.

“Right. I should… see about breakfast.” Eugene gets up too, stretching out his arms. “… _Urgh_ – hammocks aren’t… as comfortable as they sound, are they?”

Her lips twitch, and she reaches out to slip her hand into his. “No, they’re not. Come on– I’ll walk you to the galley.”

The hammocks are scratchy and leave her feeling stiff in the mornings, and the cargo hold is chilly and dark, but she wouldn’t trade their sleeping arrangements for anything. Spending long nights and quiet mornings tucked away with Eugene in their private little corner of the _Zampermin_ is the best thing about their new… situation. With her busy schedule in the palace, it hadn’t been unusual for them to go whole weeks without snatching more than a minute or two alone together every day. Now, she could spend entire days with him and _only_ him if she wanted.

She kisses him goodbye outside the galley and continues up the main deck alone. Nerves bubble in her stomach as she mounts the ladder. The odds of running into Cass again before she’s _ready—_

But she needn’t have worried.

As her sight adjusts to the brilliant sunlight, she relaxes. Cass is up on the aft deck with Mael and the more sharp-faced of the Lachaīs twins—Sobēl?—and too intent on whatever _they’re_ saying to notice Rapunzel’s stealthy creep toward the aftcastle.

The rest of the ship moves with an unhurried bustle. Renard adjusts the helm while Helcha and Tirian make noisy adjustments to the rigging; Varian and Lance huddle together next to the aftcastle steps, deep in discussion over Demanitus’s book while Ruddiger devours what remains of their breakfast. Both of them glance curiously at her as she tip-toes up to the great cabin door, and Rapunzel tries on an anxious grin.

“Wish me luck?’

Lance rumbles out a chuckle. “Talking to Caine? _Good luck._ ”

That does not make her feel one bit better about the prospect, but she takes a deep breath and knocks anyway.

“…Come in.”

_It’s going to be fine._

Shivering, Rapunzel lets herself into the incongruously cozy warmth of the great cabin. The polished floorboards radiate a gentle heat; honeyed sunlight filters through the enormous windows lining the stern, and if this room belonged to _anyone_ else, Rapunzel thinks she’d feel perfectly at ease inside it.

As it is, she is pinned in the doorway by three curt, unwelcoming stares: Pocket, Sitheach, and Moira are gathered around a large desk at the far end of the room, and all of them are glaring at her. Pascal squeaks in fear, his little claws pinching the back of her neck; a small, unpleasant smile curls over Moira’s lips.

“Well, well,” she drawls. “ _Princess._ Such an _honor._ ” Straightening up, she nods to her first and second mates. “We’ll pick this up later.”

Pocket murmurs something in Saporian that makes her smirk; then then he and Sitheach go, and she steps aside to let them, trying to ignore Pocket’s oily mutter of, “Your _Highness_ ”—he manages to make it sound insulting—and the faint, icy smirk Sitheach sends her as the great cabin door swings shut.

She gulps.

Humming, Moira clears off her desk and then slouches against it, watching Rapunzel with half-lidded eyes and a nasty smirk.

“What’s the matter, Sunshine?” she says lightly. “The Lady got your tongue?”

“Moira—”

“It’s Moi _ra_.”

“…P- pardon?”

The smirk simmers into a poisonous smile. “You’re saying it wrong, Princess. Moi _-rah._ With the Saporian ‘r.’”

“An ‘r’ is just an ‘ _r!_ ’”

“No: Moi _r_ a. Put the tip of your tongue against the roof of your mouth.”

“Moira!”

“No, _Moira._ ”

“Moi– this is ridiculous. _Caine._ I want to know how you and Cass stole the Journal.”

“Awww.” Malice glitters in her dark eyes; Moira grins, and her voice drips like syrup. “There’s a lot of things you _want,_ aren’t there, Princess?”

 _Don’t rise._ Vexed, Rapunzel pushes her fingers through her hair, half wishing it was long again—she could grab it and _twist_ so it snapped out and coiled around Moira’s waist, and then she could knock the pirate into her chair and _force_ Moira to take her seriously.

As it is, all she can do is square up her feet and don her best imitation of Dad’s stern frown. “How did you do it?”

Moira snickers. “Walked right in and _grabbed_ the thing. Wasn’t exactly hard.” Her derisive sneer folds into another envenomed smile when Rapunzel scowls at her. “Not the answer you wanted?”

“But— _how?_ ”

“Not very bright, are ya, sweetheart?”

“You know what I _mean!_ ” Rapunzel snaps, bracing herself against the urge to stride forward and get in Moira’s face and—her hand itches for a frying pan. How Cass can _stand_ this woman, she’ll never know. “How did you _convince her?_ What did you _do_ to her?”

“What did _I—?_ ”Moira tips back her head and _snorts,_ and mirth rolls in every syllable when she says, “Oh, _Princess._ I didn’t have to lift a damn _finger._ She knew what she was doing.”

“Wh– _no._ I don’t believe you.”

“Of course you don’t,” she sneers, every word drenched in disgust. “But it’s true. You think I held her at knifepoint to make her plan it all out with me? Tricked her into stealing the Commander’s keys? No.”

“Cass said she didn’t mean—”

Moira scoffs. “I gave her every chance to back out,” she croons, her face contorting with sickening glee. “But she didn’t. She _chose._ ”

No. _No,_ there has to be more to it than that. Why would Cassandra even _consider_ — Rapunzel clenches her fist, air rushing out of her lungs. She cried herself dry once already this morning, but there’s a hot, itchy feeling in her eyes again and a hitch like a lurking cough in her throat.

“But _why would she—”_

“Ask her yourself. She’s _your_ friend—supposedly.”

“Suppos—what is _that_ supposed to mean?!”

Moira slinks away from the desk with a mocking smile, and Rapunzel has to fight not to crumple beneath the condescension in her eyes.

— _immature, clumsy—_

“Do you treat all your friends like that?” Moira asks. It’s almost offhand, curious, like she’s posing a meaningless philosophical question and not insinuating—“Or is it just her?”

“Like _what?_ ”

Moira just smiles, leaning closer. “You’re not her sun; that _kills_ you, doesn’t it? That’s what’s really eating you up inside. She’s not the perfect, slavish, doting little servant you thought she was.”

“That’s not tr—”

“Oh, please. You jumped into the sea just to distract her from _me,_ ” Moira purrs. “Remember that? Or have you been telling yourself that you… slipped?”

Rapunzel retreats one hasty step, her heart hammering. _No, no, it wasn’t like that_ —she had just wanted to make up for the picnic debacle, so she had been waiting for Cass to return; and when Cass rushed out of the palace again before Rapunzel could catch up with her, _of course_ Rapunzel snuck after her. She needed to know where Cassandra was going! And then, as soon as she realized Cassandra was meeting a _friend,_ she had been too overcome with excitement to pay attention to where she put her feet—

“I _did_ slip,” she mutters.

“Sure. And that’s without even getting into all of—” she flicks her fingers in Rapunzel’s direction “—this. Cassandra risked her life to save yours, do you realize that? And you thanked her for it by accusing her of ‘betraying’ you. Some friend.”

Her sneer is carved with disdain so thick even _Gothel_ couldn’t have matched it, and for all Rapunzel’s fresh determination to stand up for herself, it still makes her feel nothing but stupid and small.

”You– y-you don’t know _anything_ about me.”

“What, you think I don’t know your little sob story?” Moira drawls. “ _Please._ Your dear old _Dad_ felt oh, so _sad_ after your… _disappearance_ that he sent up lanterns into the sky every year on your birthday… and watchmen into the streets every other day of the year.” Her face grows cold. “He threw people in cages and shipped them off to _die_ on the Lost Sea. And _you._ Oh, poor _you!_ After you escaped you were just _fine_ living in a palace and dressing up in silk and eating Neserdnian kumquats while a fleet of servants catered to your every whim—but _aww,_ all these _nasty_ people with _real_ problems kept imposing on your _me_ time.”

“You think this has been _easy_ for me?!” Indignant surprise cuts through the suffocating coils of her anxiety, and Rapunzel surges forward with a gasp. “I was kidnapped and _lied to_ my whole life—”

“Yes, yes, your life is a tragedy,” Moira snaps. “Everyone on this ship has had a hard life; if we all sulked and whined about it like you we’d never get anywhere. Grow _up._ ”

“I’m not _sulking_ —”

“What would you call moping around in the hold with your boyfriend at all hours of the day?” Simpering, Moira slides away to lounge against the desk again.

“And I don’t _whine!_ ”

“Mmmm. Sure.”

Rapunzel wraps her arms around herself, shuddering. It’s clear that Moira isn’t willing to have a- a _reasonable_ conversation about anything, and the best thing she can do now is turn around and walk away—but she can’t. She _can’t._

“Why are you so _mean?_ ” she asks. Her voice quakes; Moira guffaws; but she takes another breath and continues. “You don’t have t-to— People– people should be _kind_ to each other. Why did you even offer to help us if you were just going to be so- so _rude_ and spiteful and _mean_ about it?!”

Moira lifts an eyebrow. “And _you’re_ the epitome of kindness?”

“I try to be! I’m not perfect but at least I _try!_ ”

“Try harder.” She tilts her head to one side, her gaze sharp as a blade unsheathed, and folds her arms. “Piece of advice, honey? And I do mean this seriously. This… happy-sunshine-fake-nice _thing_ you do? That isn’t _kindness._ It’s not even close. Now get out of my cabin—and next time you want to know what’s going on in Cassandra’s head, you ask _her,_ and you _listen._ Clear?”

Despair wells up with the tears in her eyes. Rapunzel doesn’t answer; hunching, she shuffles toward the door. Moira’s judgmental stare stabs into her back as she goes.

 _How can I listen to Cass if she won’t_ tell me _anything?_

 _Then again,_ Rapunzel thinks morosely as she steps outside and the door to the great cabin slams shut behind her, _of course Moira doesn’t understand that; I bet Cass tells her_ everything.

Hate is a strong word, and Rapunzel is _not_ that kind of person.

But, she decides, she really, _really_ does not like Moira Caine.


	4. Chapter 4: City of Fun and Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello! This chapter is a week late, sorry! A combination of executive dysfunction and this whole section being fairly skeletal in my rough draft kicked my _ass_ last week. x_x We'll be back to our regularly scheduled weekend posting next week! Thank you all for your patience! ♥
> 
> And CW: Violence. Just a little.

###  **Chapter 4: City of Fun and Games**

“Fold up!” Pocket bellows.

Cassandra sinks her weight into the deck, and the _Zampermin_ slices into the dark blue waters of Lake Carca. The flylines whirr as Mael and Sobēl haul the masts upright; she looses the peak halyard from its cleat, feeding out slack so the gaff can swing into position behind the main-mast.

There’s a rattle—then a loud _snap!_ as the cold north-easterly wind fills the sails again and she lashes the halyard back down. The ship rocks hard before righting herself in the water, beginning a slow glide toward the distant, dingy sprawl of Vardaros. Idle chatter bounces across the deck. Varian, who’s been a starry-eyed shadow at Mael’s elbow all morning, bounds forward, burbling questions, and Mael grins and answers him in her cheery boom.

“Not bad,” Sitheach drones from behind her. When Cassandra turns, they’re descending the aftcastle steps, blank-faced as a polished stone. “For someone who didn’t know a skeg from a stanchion a month ago, at any rate.”

“…Thanks?”

They smirk. “Heading into town with Caine today, yes?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Hm.” Their flat grey eyes flicker down to her shoulder. Sharp. Penetrating. She squashes the impulse to squirm. “Can you handle a sword in your left?”

“ _Seriously?_ It’s been almost two _weeks_ —”

“And needs another four,” they say tersely. “Of course, you’ll want to go armed in Vardaros; but if you can rely on your off-hand, _do._ ”

Cassandra scowls. That’s… better, barely, than the prohibition against so much as touching a sword, but—still. She _resents_ the coddling. Even the royal medics in Herzingen were never this restrictive; oh, they’d fret and fuss, but sooner or later, they always threw up their hands and let her tough things out.

Stupid, stubborn pirates. Stupid _cháthar._

“Noted,” she grumbles.

“Good. Do try not to injure yourself, this time.” Sitheach steps past her, sighing, and adds, “And… Caine wanted a word with you after we landed. Best not keep her waiting.”

“O _ho_ —is she _summoning_ me now?!”

They swivel around between one step and the next, and a dusty smile whispers over their lips. “Welcome to the crew, new blood.”

 _Great._ _So I’m good enough to boss around._

_Yay._

Scowling, Cassandra yanks on the halyard one last time. Dark water slops the hull, spitting white froth, and the breeze scrapes her cheek with a frosty chortle.

_But not worth confiding in, huh? I know this song._

It’s been six days since they left Alcorsīa. Six days of waiting. Stewing. Turning over the way Moira broke off her conversation with the Separatists when Cassandra interrupted them—each repetition more _humiliating_ than the last. She’d thought Moira trusted her.

 _Welcome to the crew._ What a joke.

None of _them_ were left in the dark.

She raps unhappily on the lintel as she lets herself into the great cabin. Assuming Moira’s stupid, mysterious _errand_ in Vardaros is a Separatist thing, then she’ll _have_ to tell—

— _a… ah._

Cassandra lurches to a stop.

Moira sits, half-dressed, against her desk. One foot kicked up on the seat of her chair. Dark, _tight_ breeches hug her legs, and a sleeveless white undershirt hangs loosely from her shoulders. As she does up her bootlaces, her lean arms flex in a way that would’ve made any recruit for the King’s Watch _green_ with envy.

_…Woah._

Freckles spackle Moira’s forearms. A tendril of green ink traces a thin scar up from her left elbow to her shoulder, where it blossoms into a vivid tangle of crimson roses coiled around a leering skull. Her hair spills over her other shoulder in sleek mahogany waves, curling at the tips, and around her throat glitters a thin golden chain.

The door bangs shut. Cassandra jolts.

Moira ties off her bootlaces and _grins._

“…I– _um._ Sitheach… said—I-I can come back in a minute—”

“Stay,” Moira purrs, straightening up with a slow glance that begins at Cassandra’s toes and glides languidly up to her face. “You’re looking _sharp,_ honey. Green suits you.”

Heat rushes to her face, and Cassandra tears her gaze away, landing on— _Owl. Focus on… Owl._ Who is fast asleep above the dresser, his feathers fluffed in contented ignorance of whatever _mortifying_ game—

_What’s she trying to do now? Flatter me into submission?! It’s not going to work!_

Still. She plucks at the stitches of her jack-of-plate, self-conscious.

It’s the nicest thing she owns. Soft green velvet sewn over sturdy layers of canvas and steel. _Armor._ She’d saved up for more than a year to buy it for herself on the anniversary of her adoption two years ago, and at the time it had been nothing but a frivolous luxury. Stupid, really. She’d never had real reason to wear it in Herzingen, not for anything besides teaching herself how to move with its weight and entertaining _ridiculous_ fantasies—but last night, Moira had intimated that their destination in Vardaros is _fancy_ as well as dangerous. So the jack seemed… appropriate.

 _Sharp._ She twitches.

Clothing— _fashion_ isn’t– Cassandra’s always hated dresses. It’s a trait that demands a certain amount of indifference to what other people think of her appearance.

And she can do indifference. Cassandra has indifference in _spades._ But nobody’s ever paid her a compliment quite like that before: baldly appreciative. _Straightforward._ Not like all the times Rapunzel coaxed her into tolerating crowns of late-summer flowers because _the colors look so nice with your complexion!_ and not like the Commander’s gruff praise for how grown-up she looked in the hideous pastel gowns that had come with the lady-in-waiting gig.

It’s– it’s _disconcerting._

Humming, Moira flits to the dresser to shrug her way into a linen shirt, then a quilted scarlet vest with copper buckles, which clack under her fingernails as she fastens them up.

“We’re having lunch with the Baron today,” she says, wrenching Cassandra’s thoughts onto another track altogether. Again.

“The– we’re _what?!_ ”

“The Baron,” Moira drawls. “Marcus Esclavo? Ring any bells?”

“But.”

Of course it rings a bell. _Esclavo_ isn’t a name of great importance in the scope of Coronan politics, but she’ll _never_ forget the portrait of the woman with the hard, squared-off face and thick mane of auburn hair: Jeannine Esclavo, Baroness of Vardaros, who’d married into the Coronan royal line several generations ago. Tucked high into a corner in the east gallery. When Cassandra was sixteen she’d tumbled off a rickety ladder in the middle of cleaning the damn thing, and Jeannine’s steely glower branded itself into her memory in vivid shades of embarrassment. Marcus must be a great-grandson or nephew or— but—

“ _Why?_ ” she asks, baffled.

“He’s a crook.” Moira strolls to the mirror, lips pursed, and fans her fingers through her hair. “Rich, and not much a _fan_ of Corona. Andrew’s hoping we– well, _I_ can get him to delay Eldora’s intervention in the war. It’s… a _long_ shot, but…”

She twists her hair into a bun, pins it ruthlessly into place, and glares at her reflection; Cassandra gapes at her.

It’s so matter-of-fact. None of the coy, dangling hints Cassandra had expected to get mired in today. Like it’s _simple_. Like it isn’t something Moira hid from her for two weeks.

“This whole trip’s about helping the Separatists,” she blurts out. “Isn’t it?? Not… not just Vardaros.”

Blank incredulity wipes Moira’s face clean of everything else, and she glances over her shoulder with a faint smile. “Yes?”

“Why– you didn’t tell me!”

“ _Honey._ ” Chuckling, Moira scoops a coat off her bunk. It swishes around her knees as she slides into it. Grey wool. Wide lapels. A high collar. The one she’d worn the second time they met. “I thought it was _obvious_.”

“W- well _yes,_ I figured—but– but that’s not the point!”

It feels like having her legs cut out from under her. A quick, dizzy fall—the searing crack of her head on the ground. Her heartbeat wrings the air from her lungs, and she drops heavily onto the cushioned bench.

_She expected me to just know!?_

“You _hid_ it from me,” she whispers.

“By… having Separatists in my ship in broad daylight,” Moira drawls. “Come on, Cassandra. You’re an idiot sometimes but you’re not _stupid._ ”

“ _You–!_ ” Gasping, she pitches back onto her feet. “No! Don’t turn this back on me—”

“‘This?’ What _this_ —”

“—you are _so–!_ ” Frustration shreds the words, and for a moment Cassandra just swells with helpless, feathering ire. Then—“Get _over_ yourself!” she hisses. “You– you- you wind people up on purpose so you can act like you’re better and I’m _sick of it!_ ”

Her voice cracks into a shriek, and Owl startles awake, whistling shrilly. Moira raises her eyebrows.

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“You did it in Socona, and Herrfeld, and– you _know!_ You’ve done _nothing_ but make fun of me for a _month_ —”

“—what the hell are you talking about—”

“—and _Rapunzel!_ ” she screeches. Fury blazes in her chest, and she storms toward the window with a wordless snarl.

Rapunzel burst out of the great cabin in _tears_ six days ago, and the shrapnel of that confrontation lies jagged under the churning surface of everything _else._ She tried patience. She tried mediating. She tried listening—but Moira’s telling makes her sound so reasonable that it _can’t_ be true, and Rapunzel won’t say anything except that Moira was _unkind._

She tried asking both of them to just apologize and move on. She tried enlisting help from Lance and Eugene. She tried _ignoring_ it for a few days, but that only made the glacial tension set in so deep she felt the ice gnawing into her bones.

Cassandra whirls around, baring her teeth. “Don’t give me that _shit_ about how she ‘picked a fight’—you _know_ how difficult– her whole _life_ got turned upside down _twice!_ And she’s confused, she’s _scared_ and you take every chance you get to be as awful to her as you can and then, then when that _upsets_ her you act like it proves she’s some horrible brat when she’s _not!_ If she’s a brat, then _so are you,_ but at least she’s _trying—”_

“You think I’m _not?_ ”

“Oh, _please_ —”

“You think this is _easy_ for me?”

“ _You_ made this _mess_ —”

“Shut _up._ ”

A venomous, ugly look contorts Moira’s shock-white face, and Cassandra shuts up. Aftershocks of rage ring in her ears. Murky silence coagulates inside the cabin, splintered by their ragged breathing.

She shudders.

“ _Shut_ up,” Moira breathes. She draws herself upright, anger blazing in her eyes and everything else a frigid mask. “If that’s how you really feel you can stay on the ship. With _Sunshine._ ”

Her voice chips. Brittle. The pit of Cassandra’s stomach opens like a sinkhole, and as her temper tumbles into it, the sticky residue of shame crawls out.

“Moira–”

“ _I_ have a job to do.” Moira paces to her rack of sabers, lifts one down, and slides it jerkily into its scabbard. “ _You_ can shut up and help—or not. Your choice. I can’t– I _cannot_ deal with this now.”

“I—”

“Just… go.” The scabbard creaks in her grip. “I’m leaving the _minute_ we’re moored. Be ready if you want to come, but– _go._ Ten minutes. Get yourself sorted out first.”

## ❦

Rapunzel spent most of her second week aboard the _Zampermin_ watching, carefully. Cataloguing things.

Things like Caine touching Cassandra’s back to nudge her aside in the galley, or grasping her elbow to haul her across the deck. Or a hand tucked into the curve of Cassandra’s waist while she leaned closer, murmuring something that made Cass scoff. Or fingertips fluttering down Cassandra’s neck, possessive, commanding.

Dozens of little touches, tolerated but not returned.

What Rapunzel _can’t_ figure out is how she got Cass so firmly under her thumb. Cass is one of the stubbornest, most aloof people she knows, and whatever happened to make her so… so _compliant_ for Caine—

Thinking about it makes her skin _crawl._

The missing pieces taunt her. Whatever Caine did to force Cass to steal the Journal must have been _awful_ —so awful Cass can’t bear to talk about it, and Caine doesn’t dare to admit.

But then… Once she’d made Cass an accomplice to treason, it must have become… easier. She could threaten to reveal the truth if Cass crossed her, and promise secrecy for further cooperation. That hadn’t been enough to stop Cass from interfering with the first attack at Janus Point… so Sirin had surrendered.

A set-up. Cass walked into the trap, and Sirin told her the “truth.”

Of course Cass never questioned it. Why would she? Having traitorous murderers for parents must have felt like a horrible burden, and she would’ve clung to any shred of proof she could find to the contrary.

Furious, distraught, she fled Herzingen and turned to Caine, who played the part of a solicitous, sympathetic friend… a role that oh-so- _conveniently_ means she’s never far from Cassandra’s side. A short leash. Flying ships instead of towers.

Shuddering, Rapunzel buttons up the enormous fur-coat Helcha lent to her. Even without all the details, the dangerous path Caine dragged _her_ best friend down is painfully clear, and determination fires in her stomach.

So what if Cass fell under Caine’s sway? So _what_ if she keeps taking Caine’s side, deluded into believing in the pirate’s good intentions? They’ll make port in Vardaros any minute now, and all Rapunzel needs to do is get Cass off the ship and _away_ from Caine for a day or two. Long enough to break the spell. An outing with her _real_ friends will help Cass see things more clearly, just like Eugene’s companionship had awoken Rapunzel to Gothel’s true nature.

 _It’ll work,_ she assures herself. _It’s a good plan._

Once Cass is back to normal, they can hire a carriage or some horses and set off on their own, and Rapunzel will never, _ever_ have to think about Moira Caine again.

“You sure about this, Sunshine?” Eugene mutters out of the corner of his mouth as he jams his hat onto his head. “I mean… I really think you should consider the possibility that Cass isn’t, um. _Mistaken._ ”

“Hm. You said something like that about her being innocent, too.”

“But I… was _right_ about– Sweetheart, Cass _did_ steal—”

“Under duress, Eugene!” Rapunzel says impatiently. “Trust me on this. _Moira_ —” she feels a vicious bolt of satisfaction at spitting the name out _wrong,_ knowing Caine would throw a fit if she heard “— _forced_ her. I don’t know how, but I know _Cass,_ and I know that all this… _Separatist_ stuff, deep down, she _knows_ it’s not right. Friends—”

“—‘just know,’” Eugene mutters.

“Exactly.”

Doubt still dims his smile, but when she holds out her hand, Eugene takes it and lets her hustle him out of the hold. Through the cramped grid of crates and barrels, past the hulking arbalests on the war deck, and up into the cabin, where…

…Cass crouches in front of her bunk, rummaging through the locker underneath, in what feels like the first real stroke of luck Rapunzel has had in weeks. Delighted, she squeals and darts forward to drag her up into a tight hug.

“Cass! Good morning!!”

“–Raps— _oof!_ Rapunzel, _what_ —”

Eugene clears his throat. “Uh, hey Cass.” He makes it sound easy, _casual_ in a way Rapunzel could never manage. She beams. “We’re gonna round up Lance and Varian and head out. Y’know… see the markets, stretch our legs…”

“Right.”

“You should come!” Rapunzel chirps, hoping it doesn’t sound too rehearsed. “It’ll be fun! Just the four of us, like old times!”

When she planned this, she imagined a smile breaking over Cassandra’s face; that joy would kindle in her eyes and she’d _shine_ the way she does whenever she’s really, truly happy—the way she’s never smiled for _Caine._

Instead, Cass looks stricken. She sighs out a long, low sigh and glances away, clearing her throat. “Actually, I’ve already got—I’m, uh. Having lunch with Moira.”

“…You’re what.”

Cass shrugs and crouches again to tuck her parrying dagger into her boot, and then folds her cloak out of the locker. She gets to her feet, swinging the cloak around her shoulders. Kicks the locker shut. “Sorry. Maybe next time. You guys have fun, though—”

“Why are you having lunch with _her?!_ ” Rapunzel shrills. Eugene’s hands fall on her shoulders, but his reassuring squeeze feels very far away. _How could she?_

“She… asked?”

“But—do you _want_ to go with her?”

To this, Cassandra lifts a single eyebrow, her expression cooling by several degrees. “She needs me. I’m going.”

“But why—”

“Because she’s my _friend,_ ” she snaps.

 _Doubtful._ Rapunzel snorts. “I think she can go _one day_ without you, Cass.”

“So can _you._ Raps, this is not up for debate—”

“How can you be _friends_ with her?!” The question bursts free before Rapunzel can cage it; she lunges forward to grab Cass by the elbows, staring pleadingly into her eyes. “She’s so…” _Horrible, spiteful, controlling. Mean._ “…Cass…”

“What did she say to you, Rapunzel?”

Cassandra’s gaze cuts her like honed steel. She quails.

 _It doesn’t matter!_ Rapunzel can’t understand why Cass can’t grasp that; the specific things Caine said didn’t matter when she sobbed onto Cassandra’s shoulder a week ago, and they still don’t matter _now._ What _matters_ is the malevolence that scorched Caine’s eyes to charcoal when she spoke, and the poisonous, sneering twist of her mouth. The disdainful loathing that boiled in every word—like knives.

Groaning, Cass says, “Look, I know Moira can be _harsh_ —and she owes you an apology!—but she’s not some… evil monster, okay? And you’ve gotta give me more to work with, here, because from what _she’s_ said—”

“Oh, come _on,_ Cass _an_ dra,” Eugene retorts. “How hard can it be to just ask Captain Shark Lady to just _cool it_ on the biting people’s heads off?”

“‘Shark Lady?’ _Really?_ ” Cass shoots him a glare full of such withering disgust that for a moment, it feels like everything’s gone back to normal again; then she shakes her head and pulls away. “Whatever. I’ve gotta go.”

“No– Cass, _wait_ —”

But she prowls to the ladder, her cloak billowing out behind her, and does not turn around. Rapunzel sags as the hatch bangs shut behind her, plunging the cabin into shadow.

_I guess this will be harder than I thought. But I’m not giving up._

“…Hey.” Eugene slips his hand into hers, and when she looks up, he’s smiling softly down at her. “Sunshine… I know you had your hopes set on _today,_ but… hey, you know. Little steps.” The ship sways, knocking their shoulders together, and he tugs her forward. “Next time, right?”

“…Right.” She rallies, shutting her eyes and sucking in a deep breath. Cleansing. Calming. It’s just one little setback. “We’ll get through to her sooner or later.”

“And _we_ can still have a good time,” he adds, voice light, as he waves her up the ladder ahead of himself. “This is Vardaros! Greatest city in the world! We’ll have a great time with Lance and Varian, with or without—”

“ _Pardon_ me.”

Caine’s voice cracks over his like a whip, and Rapunzel’s blood runs cold. Half the crew are lined up along one side of the deck, lashing down the moorings, and Caine herself—a nightmare in ash-grey and blood-red—stares them down from the top of the gangplank. Cassandra hovers at her shoulder, jaw tight.

“So sorry,” Caine says silkily, “I must have heard wrong. You’re not planning to leave the _ship,_ are you?”

Rapunzel glowers right back. “So what if we are?”

Caine… blinks. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a cat. “This is not a vacation, Princess,” she breathes. “Do whatever you want… but if you’re not aboard when I return, we’re leaving without you. Clear?”

“That’s _ridiculous_ —”

“Then I suggest you stay _put._ ”

Incensed, Rapunzel turns to Cass for support—but Cass just shuffles in place, seeming far more interested in studying the wooden buildings crowding the shore than she is in sticking up for her _friend._ Misery ties Rapunzel’s stomach into knots.

 _Oh, Cass, what happened? What has she_ done _to you?_

“Three hours,” Caine drawls to her first mate. “Stay alert. Be ready.”

Then she stalks down the gangplank, and Cassandra—without even a second glance in Rapunzel’s direction—follows her off the ship.

## ❦

 _Great_ is… not a word that comes to mind, as Cassandra follows Moira through the narrow streets of Vardaros. The city skitters away from the lake shore in a series of crooked canals and streets sloppy with slush, flanked by drab wooden houses and an _alarming_ number of taverns. Trash spills out of alleyways and clogs the murky canals; the air feels greasy, smeared with a stench that reminds her of the tanneries in Herzingen’s lower quarters—but… _more._ Her eyes water.

People scuttle along the streets with their heads tucked down and hands hovering near weapons. Daggers. Rapiers. Broadswords. They pass one enormous woman with an _axe_ strapped to her hip, and Cass catches her breath and tries not to gawk.

Moira strides through the furtive crowd like a ship cutting through rough water, a ferocious scowl on her face. Some strain in her expression had eased when she saw Cassandra joining her after all, but the sound of Eugene’s voice had chiseled her down to rigid emptiness. Hatred, or anger. Or something else.

Cassandra gnaws on the tip of her tongue for a moment, then ventures, “Moira?”

“ _What._ ”

“I’m sorry.” _Talk’s cheap._ She winces, hollowed out by the guilt worming through her resentment, and reaches out to brush her knuckles against the back of Moira’s shoulder. Fumbling. “I– I… know…”

She’s too caught up in her own problems to be a half decent friend to _anyone._ If Moira does trust her after all, she _shouldn’t._

_She believes in you. Sun above._

Huffing, she mutters, “I’ve… I’ve got your back. That’s… all.”

They splatter through a long slurry of garbage and grey snow while Moira thinks this over. A wet chill seeps through the worn soles of Cassandra’s boots, and her face warms when Moira glances sideways at her.

“…Okay,” Moira sighs.

“Just– just. Tell me what you need from me.”

She sounds like an _idiot._ Moira clicks her tongue, no doubt thinking the same thing—but she catches Cassandra’s hand in hers and _squeezes,_ too, like she’s trying to wring out every last drop of tension and leave it frozen on the street behind them.

And that feels… okay. For now.

“Keep your mouth shut,” she murmurs as she lets go. “Listen. Cough if the Baron says something you know isn’t true. _Don’t_ mention _Sunshine._ ”

For once, Cassandra lets the bitterness laced through Rapunzel’s appropriated nickname pass without comment. She nods.

“…Far as anyone here’s concerned you’re crew, and nothing else,” Moira adds, lower. “So… _try_ to look like you’re used to taking orders, honey.”

Cassandra snorts. The corners of Moira’s lips quirk up.

“We’re only testing the waters today. It’ll be quick. In and out. Just… follow my lead, alright?”

“Got it.”

Moira offers her a tight, unhappy smile, and nothing more. They make a sharp turn toward higher ground, away from the canals, where ice lacquers the street. Torn up in some places by scattered grit. Slippery in others beneath liquefying drifts of grimy snow. Precarious. Moira glances into every dank alley and shadowed doorway they pass, rigid, gripping the hilt of her saber; her eyes flick over and _over_ the street with a wariness that stands in dire contrast to the easy confidence she’d radiated on Unification Day.

She’s _afraid,_ Cassandra realizes, unease prickling down her neck.

 _Moira._ Who sauntered into the heart of the most secure vault in Corona’s Royal Archive and swiped the Journal of Herz der Sonne like it was easy. Who killed two men in as many seconds in Socona without so much as blinking.

Sugracha had captured her and dragged her to Janus Point and Moira had found the wherewithal to badger the deranged witch into delivering a message to the _Zampermin_ to—as Moira put it later—spare her the long walk back to Alcorsīa.

She might be the bravest person Cassandra knows.

_And she’s scared of Marcus Esclavo._

Cassandra sets her jaw, ignoring the chill slinking down her spine. The last vestiges of resentment splinter and tumble away. Of _all_ the days to lose her temper—

 _But I’ll fix it,_ she vows. _I’ll make it right._

_I won’t screw this up for her._

## ❦

“Oh- _kay_ ,” Eugene says breezily, “so—it’s a little, ah, _dirtier_ than I remember!”

The smell. He’d forgotten the _smell._ The fetid, living _reek_ of trash rotting in the gutters and all the filth the night-soil men haven’t gotten around to just yet. It dredges up some less-than-rosy memories from the muck of his childhood: The sickly stench of the dumpsters in summer. Playing on piles of refuse. The _rats._

Eugene shudders. _People live like this?_ I _lived like this?!_

Maybe this outing hadn’t been the best idea after all, but—ah, well. They’re committed now. He slings one arm around Rapunzel’s waist and the other around Varian’s scrawny shoulders. “But hey! Y’know, it’s still– this is still where me and Lance grew up! We know all the best spots, eh, buddy?’

Lance chuckles. “Comin’ in through the docks… sure doesn’t make the best first impression. It’s better further in. Cross my heart.”

“ _Hah!_ Yeah. Once we get outta Bren Erca— _pfft._ You’ll see. Once you get past the grime, oh, _man,_ the fun in Vardaros does _not_ end! _Haha_. Heh. Shame we’re on such a tight schedule, really.”

 _Three hours. Please!_ And he’d thought _Cass_ had a huge stick up her ass. Who pissed in _Caine’s_ porridge?

He’ll have to ask, next time the _Cap-i-tan_ graces them with her presence. Cuddly as a kai spider, that woman.

“Bu-ut,” he adds, swaying so Rapunzel and Varian sway with him, “I figure we’ve got time to walk the Sental Promenade… Maybe hit up the shops. Mm– there was this _great_ little tailor shop on Sental when we were kids—hey, Lance, remember Moreno’s?”

“Remember old Léon boxing your ears ’cause you tried to steal—”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s not go digging for skeletons,” Eugene says with a theatrical shudder that earns him a teeny, tiny giggle from Rapunzel. He grins. “Figure the old man’s still in business? I’d like to get _you_ —” His wink makes Rapunzel go pink in the cheeks. “—a coat that actually fits.”

“Aw, _Eugene._ That’s so sweet of you.”

And anything else she wants. He’ll empty his coin-purse today if that’s what it takes to raise her spirits. Rapunzel rises onto her toes to peck his cheek, and Eugene pulls her close against him, feeling a warm stir of protective affection.

“How about you, kiddo?” Lance asks. “You need anything?”

“Oh– oh, you don’t have to—”

“Ah, I’ve got the coin,” Lance says blithely, waving Varian’s spluttered protests away with an airy grin. “May as well spend some. How ’bout a nice big notebook? Something easier to keep track of than all those little scraps?”

“Oh! Thats– _hn,_ that’s a good idea, actually—”

“ _That’s_ the spirit.”

Lance ruffles the kid’s hair, looking amused, and Eugene feels a knot of tension between his shoulders unwind.

It has been a… _stressful_ couple of weeks. Ever since Cass left. Rapunzel’s alarming tailspin into obsession with that _damned_ painting, and rumors of war, and _Gilbert,_ and Janus Point. Getting out of Corona for a while had seemed like a great idea up until the _pirates_ invited themselves along.

The _pirates._ He suppresses a shudder.

Caine. Her greasy, smirking first mate, and her _creep_ of a second mate— _honestly,_ what _is_ up _with that guy? What’s his deal?_ —and the rest. _Mael_ seems alright, if only because she’s taken a real shine to Varian and it’s obvious that trotting around after her and learning about the ship is helping the kid heal. Helcha, too, even if she puts Eugene in mind of the terrifyingly strict matron of the orphanage—she’d at least made a few token gestures of welcome. The old coat and a couple of colorful shirts Rapunzel’s been wearing as long, smock-like dresses. Speaking when spoken to. That kind of thing.

But the _rest…_ they’re a standoffish bunch. Even the judgmental cook. The kind of people Flynn Rider would’ve rubbed shoulders with for a job and then stabbed in the back without a second thought, if only because they’d do the same thing to him given half a chance.

Some part of him had assumed they would soften after a few days in Rapunzel’s company, like he had, like the petty bandits of the Snuggly Duckling had. She just has a way of bringing out the _best_ in people…

…So it _figures_ Cass would get all cozy with the _one_ gang of people in the world who seem immune to—

_—Was that Anthony?_

His heart leaps into his mouth, but when Eugene looks again, there’s no sign of the gangly, shrew-faced thief across the canal, and his chugging pulse slows.

_Of course it wasn’t. Even if it was, why should it matter? It’s been eight years!_

Granted, he… hadn’t exactly parted on great terms with the powers that be, and the Baron doesn’t like to _lose_ things.

But it’s been years since he had the Baron’s thugs on his tail. He’s grown up. He’s not the scrawny, specky teenager with a stupid ponytail and clothes that don’t fit him right anymore; he is _Eugene Fitzherbert, esquire,_ and he has the _Princess of Corona_ on his arm. If that isn’t insurance against petty retribution, nothing is.

_Calm down. Get ahold of yourself._

Rapunzel really needed this.

_It’s going to be fine._

## ❦

The Baron’s manor is a monstrosity in white.

Large and unsightly, an imposing block of lime-washed stucco, it squats at the northern end of Vardaros—jammed between the walls of the craggy gorge that yawns open like the jaws of a steel trap about to snap shut around the protruding leg of the city.

High, white walls. Small windows. There’s a gilded ornamental gatehouse at the front, manned by a pair of glowering guards. It opens into a fastidiously _symmetrical_ courtyard, and as one of the guards marches them through it, Cassandra half expects the imposing walls to grind into motion—closing in like one of the trapped sections of the tunnels under Herzingen.

At the front door, the guard picks up the hideous brass knocker—it gestures at an equine shape, but whatever artisan molded it had _clearly_ never seen an actual horse before—and raps smartly.

Then they wait for a minute or two in stiff silence. The guard glares at them, and the door, and the world at large, clutching his pike in a manner suggestive of a desire to be stabbing things with it instead of escorting visitors to lunch. Moira might have been carved of marble, for all she moves. Cassandra inhales, trying to school her own expression into a mirror of Moira’s blank mask.

_You can do this. Relax._

_How much worse can this guy be than Sugracha?_

At length the door swings inwards on oiled hinges, and a portly little man peers out at them. His thick blond hair is slicked back and shellacked down so it resembles nothing so much as a shiny brass skullcap jammed over his head; he’s squeezed into a suit so over-starched it could probably stand up on its own.

“Visitors,” the guard growls.

“ _Ah,_ ” says the man, in a low, unctuous voice. “Lady Caine, I presume?”

“The one and only,” Moira says tonelessly.

“And… her vassal,” he adds, blinking at Cassandra, who endeavors to look… _vassal-ish_ even as she bristles at the assumption. She’s not a _servant._ “Very good. Do come in. His Lordship awaits you.”

He leads them inside. His trousers creak when he bends his knees.

“I am Mr. Astruis,” he says, as the door glides shut behind them and he ushers them through the dim golden nightmare of the foyer. “I _presume_ you know how to… _behave_ yourselves appropriately in His Lordship’s presence? So often the common rabble have no grasp of good manners. Why, only last week—”

 _I’ll have to tell Eugene he just lost his seat as the most self-important person I know,_ Cassandra thinks sardonically as Astruis sneers and sniffs his way through a tale about the poor manners of the Vardaros citizenry. _Real charmer, this guy._

She glances at Moira, whose expression of polite indifference doesn’t quite mask the murderous glint in her eyes.

The manor’s interior drips with gold filigree and crystal chandeliers and fine rugs and marble statues and oil paintings in gilded frames and _things,_ arranged in ostentatious display cases along the corridors: masks decorated with painted feathers and intricate beadwork, daggers with hilts encrusted in gemstones and pearls, gleaming medallions and a huge golden ring set with a ruby the size of Cassandra’s fist.

Astruis brings them to a pair of lofty oak doors bracketed in gold, gives them both a disdainful once-over, and pulls open the doors. “Your other guests have arrived, Your Lordship.”

_Other—?_

As they step into the room and her gaze sweeps up the long, decadent sprawl of the dining table in the center, Cassandra’s mouth goes dry.

The Baron sits at the head of the table, unmistakable: a giant cut from the same lionish mold as Jeannine Esclavo. At his right sits a slender young woman, watching them enter with her eyes half-closed and her chin resting in the palm of her hand.

And across from _her_ sits a third person—one Cassandra _knows._ Recognition plummets straight into dread as Abraham Maradona, _Queen Arianna’s brother,_ glances from Moira to _her._ His brow furrows. He opens his mouth—

“Lady Moira Caine,” the Baron murmurs, before Abraham can get a word out. “Welcome. And…”

His gaze settles on Cassandra. His eyes are small and dark, the same almost-black _blue_ as the waters of Lake Carca. She gulps.

“Cassandra Morgenstern,” Moira says coolly, touching her elbow. “And… I believe further introductions are in order.”

“Mm. Come, sit.” Esclavo leans back in his chair with a frosty smile to watch their approach, and Cassandra grapples with the urge to seize Moira by the wrist and drag her back out of the manor. If _Abraham_ is here— if he _recognizes_ her—

“Marcus. What _is_ this? Who—”

“This is His Grace the Duke of Carvajal,” Esclavo says, with a slight gesture at Abraham. “And of course, this is my precious Stalyan. My daughter.”

One of his enormous hands falls ponderously onto Stalyan’s shoulders; she sags under the weight, rolling her eyes.

“Cassandra Morgenstern,” Abraham says, sitting forward slowly. His eyes narrow, tracking her movements as she sinks into a seat at Moira’s side. “…My niece’s former lady-in-waiting…”

All the air in the room seems to vanish. Moira stiffens; Cassandra swallows hard, gripping the edge of the table, pinned down by the Duke’s scrutiny.

“…the Saporian _traitor,_ ” Abraham continues. It’s less an accusation than a calm statement of fact, which feels worse, somehow. “Marcus—”

Chuckling, Esclavo says, “Oh, calm down, Abraham. Nothing is personal in politics; we’re all… _friends_ here. I would like to hear what the Saporians have to say.”

“I think you can imagine what we want,” Moira breathes. Her fingers curl slowly around Cassandra’s wrist, though whether she means it as a comforting gesture or a possessive one, Cassandra isn’t sure.

Anger flares in the depths of Abraham’s hazel eyes. “Eldora is Corona’s ally,” he says sharply. “Marcus, this is _nonsense_ —”

“Corona can fight its own war,” Moira retorts. “I won’t bore you with the particulars of what we’re fighting _for,_ Your Grace.” Disdain threads the last few words; her fingertips twitch against Cassandra’s wrist. “But _we_ are not the ones drafting farmers to fight. Saporia will not go _gently._ ”

“Oh, I’m well aware of the Separatist creed,” Abraham says. “Nonetheless—”

“Wars cost money. Time. Resources… People.”

“Eldora has its own problems, Abraham,” Esclavo says idly. “And Corona has spent decades throwing her weight around whilst relying on the military strength of her allies. When Corona overextends, why should Eldora pay the price?”

“Where Corona goes, Eldora follows,” mutters Abraham, with a dark, stabbing glance at Moira. “Our alliance has endured for centuries. I would not see it fail _now,_ in an hour of Corona’s need.”

“All Corona is in danger of losing is a people and a piece of land it never had a right to in the first place.” Moira lifts an eyebrow. “Really. If Corona’s new… _king_ —” This makes Abraham stiffen, and she smirks. “—set aside his stubborn pride instead of drafting farmers into a new battalion, there wouldn’t be any _need_ for war.”

“Saporian demon-worshippers kidnapped my _niece,_ ” Abraham snaps. “Let’s not pretend this is a war of principles.”

“Oh, but it is.”

“What has been _done_ to her?”

“ _I_ wouldn’t know,” Moira drawls. “Can’t speak for the _demon-worshippers,_ Your Grace; I’m not any kind of witch.”

Esclavo sits forward and murmurs, “Is that so?”

“Never had the inclination.”

“Because I have heard such… _interesting_ things about your ship, Lady Caine,” he says.

There is a chilly pause.

Moira takes a deep breath and releases it in a long, almost-silent stream, her fingers tightening around Cassandra’s wrist. “Rumors abound,” she says curtly.

“A woman with a flying ship, not a witch?” Esclavo tilts his head, stroking his golden beard. There’s a covetous gleam in his eye, and a fresh wave of discomfort ripples over Cassandra’s thoughts. “I’m sure you can understand my… doubts.”

“The _Zampermin_ flies,” Moira says. “I just captain her.”

“Really.”

“Yes.”

He smiles, showing his teeth for the first time. “I’ve heard,” he says mildly, “that such vessels were once common, before the conquest of Saporia. Yes? But the art of their construction was… lost during the reign of King Herz der Sonne.”

Moira says nothing; Esclavo leans closer, pressing his elbows into the table.

“The… what do you call her? The _Zampermin._ Is one of only three to survive that era. Isn’t that so? So many treasures, lost. Fascinating. You know, Lady Caine, I have a great appreciation for relics of… historical value.”

“She’s a working ship,” Moira says, her lips barely moving. “Not a relic. Sir.”

Esclavo’s smile slips, and the temperature in the dining hall seems to drop by several degrees. “I see.”

## ❦

“How do I look?”

Giggling, Rapunzel twirls with her arms spread out. Her new outfit isn’t anything like the elaborate dresses she wore in Herzingen or the simple, hand-sown gowns she made for herself in the tower. It isn’t even a _dress:_ A soft lilac blouse with loose, comfortable sleeves just like Eugene’s under a dark bodice—shorter and with boning less severe than the stiff stays she’d struggled so much to get used to—paired with dark purple breeches, high-waisted and much looser in the leg than the slim trousers Eugene prefers. Good _adventuring_ clothes, in her opinion.

Eugene’s face softens with adoration as he studies her. “You get more beautiful every day, Rapunzel.”

She beams. Even the confining feeling of her new boots can’t dampen her good mood as she shrugs into her new coat. It’s pink, a knee-length affair with fluffy wool around the collar and delicate floral designs embroidered in white along the skirt. She’d seen it in the window as she and Eugene strolled into Moreno’s and fell in love in a heartbeat. It’s so _her._ And now it’s _hers._

“This was– _thank_ you, Eugene,” she sighs. “I feel so much better.”

“Nothing like a little retail therapy, huh?” Grinning, he straightens out of his slouch against the dressing room door and slips the receipt into his jerkin. “I’m glad. And I’d say that leaves us… _just_ enough time to catch up with Lance and Varian to grab a bite before we head back to the ship. Shall we?”

“Caine wouldn’t _really_ leave us behind,” Rapunzel says, linking her arm around his. “Would she?”

“ _Nahh._ After all, Sunshine, the whole point of this trip is getting _you_ to Aphelion. If… nothing else, Caine does seem keen to make that happen.” A frown puckers his brow. He shakes it away with visible effort as they stroll out of the shop with a merry jingle of bells. “I know her type; all bark, no—”

“Eugene! Over here!”

“—bite. Hey, kid!”

Varian’s huddled up with Lance next to one of the spindly tables lining the edge of the Sental Promenade, which groans under the fruits of their shopping spree as she and Eugene join them.

“What’d you get?”

“I got _you_ some things, Rapunzel!” Varian says excitedly. “Well– _technically,_ Lance got everything, but—”

“He picked it all out.”

“Varian! _Aww,_ that’s so thoughtful of you? What is it?”

“A journal! And—where’s that bag? _Here!_ ”

He and Lance juggle bags around, and after a minute or two the journal in question is produced: large, bound in supple leather, with the kind of thick, heavy paper she used for watercolors at home. Rapunzel gasps as Varian presents it to her.

“Lance, uh– well! I know _I’ve_ been—” Varian flushes, rubbing the back of his head. “ _Hn._ I thought you might like having something to _do,_ you know? And Lance said you liked to paint, so um, we got this, and some watercolors and a few brushes; it’s uh, it’s not _much_ but I hope you like—”

Rapunzel throws her arms around him, and he breaks off with a startled squeak. “That’s so _sweet!_ ” she cries. “I love it, thank you!”

He’s red as a tomato when she releases him, but he looks pleased. “Oh! Well. Good. You’re welcome.”

“But I do think we oughta head back _now,_ ” Lance says quietly. He trades glances with Eugene, and something Rapunzel can’t decipher passes between them. “Gotta lot of stuff to carry.”

“Right,” Eugene mutters, his face drawing tight. “Okay. Yeah. Back to the ship, everyone.”

“…We’re not stopping for lunch?” Varian asks, puzzled.

“And miss out on Elis’s cooking?” Lance says, with a brittle sort of levity that doesn’t sit quite _right_ in his voice; he scoops up their bags—wincing as the quick motion jostles his ribs—and waves the rest of them down the Promenade.

An odd… _brisk_ silence sets in. Rapunzel clutches her new journal to her chest as they hurry along the canal and then make a sharp turn toward the crowded, dingy district of Bren Erca.

“Is something wrong?” she murmurs.

Eugene wraps his arm around her shoulders, shaking his head. “No– no, everything’s fine. It’s just… chilly! Isn’t it. _Brrr._ Can’t wait to get back to the nice… warm… ship.”

It is _not_ warm in the cargo hold. Her eyes narrow, but before she can press for whatever he isn’t telling her—

“Hello, _Rider._ ”

The voice pours out of crooked alleyway like spilled oil. Low. Dangerous. It belongs to tall, thin man who separates himself from the shadows with one gliding step; all elbows and knees and a wolfish grin in a drab, ill-fitting suit. Wisps of auburn hair feather against his sunken cheeks. A thick pink scar rakes down the left side of his face, carving his eye down to a sightless, hideous slit.

Eugene halts, tensing. “Anthony the _Weasel_ ,” he says, with teeth-gritted charm. “Heh. Y’know, I knew it was you before I even turned around—must be standing downwind. Whew. Fancy uh, fancy running into you like this. How’s the eye?”

Anthony bares his teeth. A half dozen men file out of the alleyway behind them, all armored in dingy bronze breastplates and long brown gambesons. Swords drawn.

“—Woah, now, hey—”

“You and Strongbow are under arrest,” Anthony says, obviously relishing every word. Varian gasps. “You can come quietly, or…”

“On what charges?” Lance sounds resigned; he lowers his shopping bags to the ground, grim, and lifts his hands in careful surrender. “Last I checked neither of us had any outstanding—”

“A couple of notorious thieves like you?” Chuckling, Anthony takes a step back. The thugs close ranks around him, blocking the whole street. “We’d be here all day.”

Hoofbeats rattle on the cobblestones behind them. Frantic, Rapunzel glances over her shoulder to see—hoping it’s a _real_ watchman come to put a stop to this charade or—

It’s a cart—no. A _cage,_ on wheels, pulled by an enormous bay and driven by another pair of thugs in battered armor.

_No._

“Well, Rider?” Anthony murmurs. “I’d put down the sword, if I were you. Wouldn’t want your new _girlie_ getting hurt, now would we?”

“You- you _leave him alone!_ ” Heart hammering, Rapunzel strides forward, glaring past the thugs and into the vicious satisfaction on Anthony’s face. “He’s not a thief anymore! You don’t have to arrest him!”

“Sunshine, don’t—”

Drawing herself up to her full height, Rapunzel declares, “I– I’m Princess Rapunzel of Corona. I’ll vouch for him. Let us pass.”

Silence.

An unpleasant smile creeps onto Anthony’s face, and several of the thugs snicker. Rapunzel balls up her hands into fists, lifting her chin. They have to listen to her. They _have_ to.

“We-ell,” Anthony drawls. “ _Your Highness._ I’m afraid your authority doesn’t extend past Eldora’s borders. And, from what I’ve heard…” The thugs part for him again, and he strides closer, leering down at her. “…You don’t have much in the way of _formal_ authority in Corona, either, anymore.”

“Rapunzel—”

“Step aside.”

“No. _You_ —”

_CRACK!_

Her head snaps back and pain explodes under her eye; Rapunzel staggers backward, gasping as her vision floods over with a white haze. Cold air whistles past her. Eugene bellows her name and there’s a clatter—footsteps—a disorienting _thud!_ as she hits the frozen street and her lungs empty.

“ _Rapunzel–!_ ”

Varian screams—Lance cries out in pain, a _wet_ sound—she flounders, wheezing, fighting for air—

 _He– he_ punched _me?!_

Reeling, she coughs and rolls onto her side. Cold bleeds through the crisp wool of her new coat. Her vision swims. The street lists at a nauseating angle as she struggles to focus on the skirmish. Varian, clutching their burlap shopping bags to his chest in abject terror. Thugs shoving Lance into the wagon—Eugene spitting blood as they shackle his wrists—

“N– n- _no!_ ”

She scrambles to her feet—slips—slams down onto her knees, dizzy, and tries again. Staggers after the wagon—

Too late.

“Eu- _Eugene!_ ”

The cage door slams shut, and Anthony smirks at her as he closes the padlock. “Take them to the manor, boys,” he says. The carthorse snorts and paws at the cobbles, kicking up slush, harness jingling as the driver turns him around. “An old _friend_ would like to do some catching up.”

“ _No_ —”

She runs. Tries to run. The ground churns like water underfoot and vertigo drags her down again; Rapunzel slumps to her knees, panting. Eugene’s face—bloodied and stark with terror—presses against the bars, and she can’t do anything but stare, helpless and horrified, as the wagon carries him away.

“A pleasure making your acquaintance, Princess,” Anthony murmurs. He gives a signal to the remaining thugs, who melt away into the shadows again, and turns to her with a sardonic bow. “Shame it couldn’t be under more… amiable circumstances.”

“Where are you _taking him!_ ”

He laughs softly, and slopes back in his alley.

Then—nothing. Her, and Varian. Their scattered shopping, and a few little smears and sprays of blood melting into the slush.

And just like that, Eugene is gone.


	5. Chapter 5: Paradise is Burning

###  **Chapter 5: Paradise is Burning**

_This– this isn’t happening. This_ can’t _happen._

Rapunzel lurches in the middle of the blurry street, blinking. Her pulse thumps through her skull. Bright. Agonizing. Streaks of white light jag through her eyes. She clamps a hand over her lips as her mouth stretches in a silent scream.

_Eugene._

Head spinning, she stumbles after the retreating prison cart. Varian cries for her to stop, but Rapunzel doesn’t slow down. _No_ —

 _Faster._ She wobbles and slides in the dirty slush. Her eye’s swelling shut, and the other swims with harsh jots of light. _Eugene, Eugene–!_

An intersection looms open like a gaping wound, and Rapunzel catches another glimpse of the prison cart as she skids around the corner—bouncing rapidly through a thin, disinterested crowd. Frantic, Rapunzel hurtles toward the nearest passerby and seizes her by the collar.

A girl. Maybe a year or two younger than Varian. Watching the prison cart roll by with an unpleasant little smirk on her sallow face. She yelps when Rapunzel lifts her off her feet.

“Sa grida—? Breñi _dor pud—!_ ”

“Where are they taking him?!” Rapunzel demands, shaking her.

The girl spits. “Don’t gotta tell you _nothin’_ —”

“ _Tell me!_ ”

“Rapunzel!” Terror cracks Varian’s voice in half as he slides into her periphery, clutching their shopping bags to his chest. “Wh- what are you _doing??_ Let her go!”

She bares her teeth, anger throbbing like a beacon in her head. “Not until she _tells us_ where they’re taking Eugene and L— _ow!_ ”

Rapunzel recoils as the girl’s _teeth_ sink into her thumb. The girl jerks free and scuttles backwards, clutching a little knife in one hand. “Seca gridad _jala,_ ” she snarls, and then bolts. Rapunzel lunges after her—

—and Varian drops his bags and grabs her wrist. “What are you _doing?!_ ”

“Let _go,_ Varian!”

“No!” His fingers dig into her wrist. “You’re going to get us in trouble—”

“In _trouble!?_ No, _Eugene and Lance_ are the ones in trouble, and– and nobody else cares!” Rapunzel screams this at the street at large, and receives nothing but a few sidelong glances in return. Varian whimpers, tugging on her arm.

“Have you lost your _mind?!_ ” he hisses. “Rapunzel, this isn’t Corona, you can’t just– just grab random kids on the street!”

She wrenches her wrist out of his grip, quivering. “Then what would _you_ propose we do?”

“We need to go back to the ship,” Varian says, chest heaving as he gulps air in frantic bursts. He crouches down, quaking as he scoops up the bags again. “W-we– Rapunzel, we need _help_ —”

A horrible, fractured shriek rends the air, and it isn’t until Varian flinches away and gives her the wall-eyed stare of a cornered animal that Rapunzel realize it’s coming from _her._ Laughter. She teeters on a hysterical brink, choking on it.

“ _Help?!_ ” she gasps, listing so far onto her heels that she nearly topples backwards. “From– from _who,_ Varian?! Those— _pirates_ —are not— _our friends!_ ”

Varian hunches. Paper crackles as he hugs their shopping to his chest. “They’re… helping us,” he whispers. “They’re nice–”

“I’ll bet _Arieta_ was nice at first, too!”

He reels like she just struck him across the face, and a muffled part of her mind jangles a warning as tears well up in his eyes. The fury pumping in her veins roars for her to ignore it.

“Don’t you _get it?_ Just because someone is _nice_ doesn’t mean you can trust them, it doesn’t make them good _people_ —”

“C- Cass trusts—”

“Cass doesn’t know what she’s thinking! She’s _confused!_ Caine may have tricked _her_ —don’t let her trick _you,_ too, Varian. You’re smarter than that!”

Panting, she glowers down at him, and for one awful moment, neither of them speaks, though Varian’s lips move in silence. Protests, maybe. Apologies. His eyes shimmer with tears.

Then, in a very small voice, he says, “They came for me. Cass and Lady Caine. Before. They tried to help me. Th-they– didn’t have to, but… they did.” His chin quivers as he lifts it, and determination fires behind the mist in his eyes. “ _I_ trust them. And I’m going to get help.”

“Varian—”

He ducks her grasp, spinning on his heel, and dashes back the way they came, back into the warren of Bren Erca. Back toward the _docks._ Gasping, Rapunzel races after him. She _should_ have been able to outpace him, catch him, make him see reason—but the street rolls like water underfoot and every step sends another bolt of pain through her swollen eye, and Varian evades her with ease.

And Eugene and Lance are getting farther and farther away.

“— _stop!_ ”

## ❦

“We are not asking for _help,_ ” Moira says for the third time, her voice clipped. “No one expects Eldora to break from Corona so strongly. But a neutral stance would send a _statement_ —”

“Of endorsement for rabble-rousers and malcontents,” Abraham interjects, with a sour glance at Esclavo. “You seem, Miss Caine, to be laboring under the delusion that the Saporian position is tenable _anywhere_ outside certain hotspots in southern Corona. It is not.”

Cassandra grips her fork harder, chasing a few stray grains of rice across her golden plate. The prickling tension in the dining hall has been sawing against her nerves for almost half an hour, and she feels like a frayed rope about to snap.

Moira tuts. “Saporia isn’t without friends. And more to the point, Corona had _enemies_ in plentiful supply… even before the coup. I understand Gilbert isn’t as easy a man to work with as his brother.” The side of her foot connects with Cassandra’s under the table. Grounding. Or maybe a warning to wipe the frustration off her face. “One would think,” she adds delicately, “that Eldora would be quicker to condemn the forceful seizure of power, mm? I can’t imagine Rodolfo wants _his_ family to get any ideas.”

Esclavo chuckles. Abraham just frowns. “That is a separate issue—”

“Is it?” Moira lounges back in her seat, imperious as a queen—for all that Cassandra can feel the hidden quiver in her leg. “Gilbert rushes to embrace a war his brother at least made a token attempt to contain, Your Grace. That is his very _reason_ for usurping his brother. To support him in war is to accept his _legitimacy._ ”

“One brother-in-law is as good as another, I suppose,” Esclavo murmurs, earning himself Abraham’s filthiest glare yet. “It is a salient point, Abraham. Support for Coronan warmongering seems rather more than is demanded by the terms of alliance.”

“Answering provocations of force _with_ force hardly qualifies as ‘warmongering.’” Glowering, Abraham stabs the last piece of his chicken and holds it aloft. Sauce dribbles off it, puddling on his plate. “Again, Miss Caine, you speak for people who kidnapped and mutilated _my niece._ ”

“And how many families has Corona destroyed?” Drumming her nails against the polished tabletop, Moira drawls, “We could trace blame back thousands of years, but frankly, that isn’t a game you can win. _Sir._ ”

“War,” Esclavo says, “may not be a game _Saporia_ can win.”

“We took Herzingen in a day.”

Abraham snorts, his mustache quivering with vexation. “Or rather, you took advantage of a natural disaster and the rash actions of a magic-addled _child,_ and claimed victory over a sinkhole. Gilbert is… many things, but at least more forthcoming with information than Frederic. We know the Saporian witch was responsible for only a fraction of the damage on midwinter, so unless you mean to suggest that Saporia also controls these ‘black rocks—’”

The gilded doors swing open with a ponderous _thwoom,_ and Astruis glides inside on an eddying draft of cooler air. He bows, and says, “Mr. Halloran is here to see you, milord. Shall I direct him to wait?”

Moira goes rigid. Her fingers drift across the table to wrap around Cassandra’s wrist, and _how_ Cassandra is supposed to interpret that, she isn’t sure—

“No,” Esclavo says quietly. “No. Send him in.”

Astruis nods importantly and whisks out of sight. From the hall comes a muffled exchange in Eldoran, and he returns before the doors even have time to close. Sloping in behind him is a man who wouldn’t have looked out of place aboard the _Zampermin:_ auburn-haired, with the shrewd, cunning stare of a thief and a knotted scar twisting down the left side of his face.

“What is it, Anthony?” Esclavo asks.

“Good news, Baron,” Anthony replies in an oily drone. His one good eye gleams. “We’ve apprehended Rider and Strongbow at last.”

Moira’s grip locks tight around her wrist before Cassandra grasps the full _weight_ of that statement, and she meets Cassandra’s panicked glance with a tight-lipped grimace.

_He can’t mean–_

“Marvelous,” breathes Esclavo. “Bring them in.”

Grinning, Anthony bows and clicks his fingers—a loud _SNAP_ in the sudden, stiff silence. The doors swing open again to admit a quartet of brawny men in grubby, ill-fitting armor, who march in with two prisoners chained between them.

Eugene. _Lance._

Heart in her mouth, Cassandra stares. Blood speckles Lance’s collar and smears Eugene’s chin. Both of them shackled. Lance breathing in shallow, careful sips. Resignation pinches Lance’s expression. Anxiety is scribbled all over Eugene’s.

_No–_

Stalyan looks up from the greens she’s been picking at for twenty minutes and studies the pair with sudden interest, twisting a lock of her long brown hair around one finger. Moira pales, squeezing Cassandra’s wrist.

And Abraham hisses, “Eugene– _mir brelce,_ Marcus—!”

Esclavo answers him with a stream of Eldoran, his tone chiding and soft as ever; but when Abraham, face terrible with wrath, opens his mouth to retort, Eugene gets there first.

“ _Marcus!_ Haha, heh– long time no… see. Have you renovated since the last–? eh-heh. Of course you have, me and Lance were just admiring what you’ve done with—”

“If you’d like to keep your tongue,” Anthony says lowly, “I suggest you stop moving it now.”

“Anthony,” Esclavo says, with velvety reproof that cuts right through Abraham’s outraged cry, “please. Rider is our guest.”

“ _Really?_ ” Eugene shrills. “Wow, you know, I _thought_ I remembered Eldoran hospitality being a bit rougher—but don’t you think the shackles are a little much? I mean, much as I love the whole family… _reunion_ vibe going on here—”

“Stop talking,” Stalyan says. Her voice is lower and harder than Cassandra would’ve imagined. An icicle to her father’s velvet.

Eugene shuts his mouth with a soft _click_.

“Hello, Stalyan,” he squeaks.

“No more games, Rider—sit _down,_ Abraham.” Esclavo steeples his hands together, tapping his chin. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment.”

“H- _have_ you.”

“Oh, yes. It’s time to make amends for what you did to my daughter.”

What little color is left in Eugene’s face washes out of it, and Lance pulls his lips back in a grimace. “Oh– _ooooh,_ right, the– the Stalyan. Incident.” Eugene looks wildly from Esclavo to Stalyan, and then—as his gaze skitters down the table with a frantic nervousness—freezes in shock as his eyes lock with Cassandra’s. “…Wait. _Wait_ –”

“What did you _do,_ Fitzherbert?” Cassandra hisses.

“ _You’re_ mixed up in all this?” Eugene splutters. “Oh, and the _pirate_ too?! Well I guess _that_ tracks—”

“So,” Esclavo says mildly, “Lady Caine, you’re already acquainted with Rider.”

“We’ve… met.” Moira says it like she’s chipping the words from a block of ice; a fine tremor runs through her fingers as she shoves her shoulders back. “But whatever business you have with him… well. I think we’re done here. We’ll leave you to it.”

_We can’t just—_

The loud squeal of Moira’s chair as she stands up severs the protest before it can trip past Cassandra’s lips.

_We can. The hell else are we supposed to do?_

She floats to her feet, feeling dizzy, and allows Moira to steer her away from the table. Eugene scoffs. “Gee, Cass _an_ dra, and here I thought we were _friends_ —”

Moira makes plaintive little noise in her ear, gripping her wrist even tighter, and Cassandra doesn’t turn around. Nausea churns in her stomach. _Two of us. Two watchmen plus Anthony, plus the guards at the gate. At least. Eugene and Lance are injured. We’d have to drag them all the way across the city and get to the docks without getting apprehended again, and then—_

It’s just not possible.

“Lady Caine,” Esclavo calls, once they reach the doors. Moira twitches before turning around. “I agree that Corona should fight her own wars. Or, at least, call upon the might of the Sevenfold Pact rather than turn to Eldora.”

Abraham mutters something in Eldoran. It sounds viciously uncomplimentary.

“But,” Esclavo continues, unruffled, “King Rodolfo does not share that view. Neutrality has never been an option, you understand.”

Moira takes a shallow breath. Strain shreds her voice when she mutters, “Even a few months’ delay—”

“—It would be a heavy lift,” Esclavo replies. “With… significant risks to my own interests, for nothing but the promise of gratitude should Saporia win. I’m sure you can understand my hesitance.”

“I do,” Moira says, through clenched teeth.

“Mm. So absent any upfront guarantees… Eldora’s interests must come first.” His bushy eyebrows creep toward his hairline, and he stares Moira down. Waiting.

“We have nothing to offer _upfront,_ ” Moira says stiffly.

“I see,” Esclavo says. Disappointment prickles in the air, and his small, dark eyes linger on them for a long, uncomfortable moment. “Well, that is unfortunate. I’m sorry we couldn’t come to any arrangement.”

A bitter smile quirks the corners of Moira’s mouth. “We appreciate your willingness to discuss it,” she says, lips barely moving as she hooks the words out of herself. Brute effort. She doesn’t sound grateful; she sounds like she’s fantasizing about striding across the dining hall to wring the Baron’s neck.

Cassandra understands the feeling _perfectly._

“Astruis can show you out,” Esclavo says, his tone tilting into dismissal. “Safe travels, Lady Caine.”

Moira tugs her out of the dining hall, dragging the door shut behind them, and for a moment they stare at each other over the smoking wreckage of whatever hopes the Separatists had for this little venture.

“ _Shit,_ ” Moira whispers. “Cassandra, I–”

“Abraham can help them more than we can,” Cassandra mutters back, trying to sound calmer than she feels. Something close to panic is sparking in Moira’s eyes, and _that_ scares her more than anything. She tugs her wrist through Moira’s grip to clasp her hand instead, squeezing hard. “We should. Go—”

Astruis sweeps up, clucking like an unctuous chicken. “Come, come, follow me—no loitering about…”

 _They’ll be okay,_ Cassandra tells herself desperately, clutching Moira’s hand as they’re marched out of the manor. Rapunzel is going to be _beyond_ furious, but– _Abraham can get them out. Rapunzel can write to him—I’ll_ make _Moira lend her that enchanted messenger bird thing if I have to—and then, then…_

They’re meeting Adira in Marne after Quintonia. Something about a huge archive of magical lore in the Silberbast Mountains. The Spire? _Eugene and Lance can catch up with Adira and wait for us there. It- it isn’t_ ideal, _but we can salvage this._

_I hope._

## ❦

Heavy silence weights down the air after the doors slam. Eugene gulps, thoughts racing as he puts the pieces together. Saporian pirates. _Separatist_ pirates. Here, in Vardaros. Talk of keeping Eldora out of the war, for Saporia’s sake. And Caine had delivered him and Lance to the Baron on a gods-damned silver _platter._

_Just. Peachy._

Marcus resettles himself in his seat, ignoring the furious look Abraham is giving him, and regards Eugene with an expression somewhere in the neighborhood of stern, paternal disappointment. _Bastard._ Eugene meets that icy stare for as long as he can stand it before cringing away.

Stalyan.

He’s not sure what he expected to see in her face—well, no, he hadn’t been expecting to see Stalyan _at all_ —but anger, maybe. No one can carry a grudge like she does. She runs hot and burns bright; she _doesn’t_ play games, not like this.

Except maybe now she does. Her expression is smooth, serene.

Predatory.

_Like a cat._

“Amends,” Eugene says. His voice cracks as he slips weakly into Eldoran. His first language. A shackle on his tongue. “Y-y’know, I’m surprised you haven’t just let this one go? It’s been almost– _whew,_ eight years now? Ancient history! Time really does fly—”

“When you’re having fun,” Stalyan says curtly.

Which shuts him up.

She always did have a knack for doing that.

“…Right.”

“Heaven’s fire, Marcus!” Abraham explodes. The dishes rattle as he brings his palm down against the table. “What in the _blazes_ are you doing? Meetings with Saporian Separatists! Assaulting—”

“Young Rider here,” Marcus says, silken as ever, “has sixteen outstanding warrants for his arrest in Vardaros alone. Mr. Strongbow is well known to be his accomplice. I am entitled to enforce the law in my own territory as I see fit. As are you.”

“This is _barbaric._ ”

Marcus shrugs. He smiles with all the kindness of one of his damned spiders, and Eugene shudders. “Eight years ago, Rider made certain… promises to my daughter. Promises that were not kept. I’m simply giving him a chance now to make things right. Let us call it an experiment in restorative justice.”

_Hm. Not liking how that sounds._

“Yeah, a- _about_ that—Stalyan, I’m sorry, but—”

“Always ‘but’ with you,” Stalyan says, sounding bored. Her long fingernails _click_ against her armrest. “You left to… _acquire_ an engagement ring and never came back. Not to mention all the coin you stole from the barony’s coffers first.”

“…Okay, yes, when you put it like that it does sound… _bad,_ but—”

Stalyan holds up one hand, and Eugene shuts up again. “I’m not interested in your justifications, Rider. After what you did, I promised myself that if I ever saw you again I would break _a lot_ of bones.”

“ _My_ bones?”

Lance makes a scraping noise in the back of his throat; a smothered bubble of nervous laughter.

“ _But,_ ” Stalyan says, “with time comes perspective, and after a _lot_ of introspection…” Sighing, she slides forward in her chair, cupping her chin in the palm of her hand. “I realized that was the wrong approach.”

“…You did?”

“What?”

She smiles, like broken bones are still very much on the table. “We belong together, Rider,” she murmurs. Eugene’s heart sinks. “We were partners. Meant for each other. And after all… people can’t change who they are.”

_Oh this… this is very bad._

“Stalyan, we– we were just _kids_ —”

“Marcus, this is my niece’s _fiancé,_ ” Abraham protests. “You can’t be serious!”

“Is he?” Marcus tips his head to one side in a pantomime of thought while Eugene’s heart hammers against his ribs. _That’s a trap, it’s a trap—!_ “Because I seem to remember hearing that Princess Rapunzel turned him down rather… _emphatically._ ”

Eugene flinches. _Wow. Okay. Low blow, Baron._ “I mean if you wanna get into _semantics_ —”

“Besides, he proposed to my daughter long before he found the Princess.” With a chilly smile, Marcus rubs his fingertip over the hollowed-out stone of his execution ring, and Eugene shrinks. He’s only seen it in action once, but what an _informative_ afternoon that had been. “Isn’t that right, Rider?”

“…Well… y-yes, but…”

They were _sixteen!_ Just kids! And—alright—he _had_ loved Stalyan with every ounce of romance left in the dried-up, cynical husk of his teenaged heart, but all that amounted to in the end was a guilty pang when he left her behind. It hadn’t stopped him from lifting as much coin as he could carry and before he took himself to Maldonia to swipe the Eye of Pincosta—and then fencing the flawless ruby to book himself passage all the way to Vacona, _far_ out of the Baron’s reach. He’d set himself free with a promise and a lie, and never looked back.

“You can’t _make_ me marry you, Stalyan,” he whispers.

“Of course not, Rider,” she says, with a polished disdain he can’t remember ever hearing in her voice before. “But…”

“I’m offering you an opportunity, Rider,” Marcus says, while Stalyan lids her eyes and gazes at Eugene with the placid enjoyment of a cat watching an oblivious mouse slink out of its hole. “You’ve already had a taste of what doors a clean slate can open… for you _and_ Mr. Strongbow. Records can be sealed. Weregilds forgiven. Past transgressions… forgotten forever. Provided you make things right with my daughter.” He blinks slowly. _Savoring_ it. Eugene grits his teeth together. “Otherwise, well… Your cases can proceed to trial.”

 _We stole_ for you, _you bastard,_ Eugene thinks helplessly.

Not that it matters. One glance at the stricken look on Abraham’s face is all the confirmation he needs of the technical legality of this scheme; little different, in the end, from Frederic’s offering of a full pardon in exchange for services rendered. The only difference in Corona had been that he brought Rapunzel home _without_ any expectation of reward.

“Take tonight to think it over,” Marcus says generously. “Anthony—” The horrible _weasel_ stiffens with sycophantic glee when Marcus turns to him. “—see to the other matter, while we wait for Rider’s decision.”

Anthony grins. “With _pleasure,_ my lord.”

Eugene rattles his shackles as Anthony slinks out of the dining hall. One of the guards who escorted them in snickers. Tight bands of anxiety constrict around his chest.

“Take them to the constabulary,” Marcus adds, nodding to the guards. Eugene winces; they seize him by the arms, and the last thing he sees before they haul him and Lance out of the room is Abraham leaning over, stormy-faced, to whisper furiously at the indifferent Baron.

His heart thumps erratically. Maybe having a duke and a princess on his side will change the math to get them _out_ of this mess. Maybe Stalyan will come to her senses and realize how _insane_ this is, and talk her father down.

_And maybe Caine’s just helping us out of the goodness of her heart._

Despite everything, Eugene can’t help a sardonic snort. _Yeah, right! And I bet pigs can fly, too!_

 _We are,_ he thinks, _so fucked._

## ❦

“They left,” Mael announces when they come charging up the gangplank, and Moira grinds out a crackling laugh.

“I know. Cast off.”

She drops Cassandra’s hand and stalks across the deck, her expression murderous, and Cassandra, panting, meets Mael’s quizzical glance with a feeble shrug. They had made it across Vardaros in record time—Moira kept breaking into a jog whenever the ice gave way to rough cobbles underfoot—and Cassandra had spent the frantic race back to the ship trying _not_ to think about what would happen if Rapunzel wasn’t _here_.

Leaving Eugene and Lance in Abraham’s hands is one thing. Leaving Rapunzel alone on the streets of Vardaros—

”Captain—”

“They were warned,” Moira says crisply. “Sunshine wants to stay? She _can._ Cast. Off.”

“It’s just–” Mael releases her breath in an uncertain puff, squaring herself off like a soldier standing to attention as Moira swivels around to glare at her. “They took the kid with ’em,” she says. “And you _did_ say three hours; it’s been two and a half.”

Moira works her jaw for one terrible moment, and Cassandra sags against the railing, feeling sick. _Varian._ His two weeks aboard the _Zampermin_ had done him so much good, and after the nightmarish ordeal of the past few months, she can only imagine how he’ll feel if he makes it back to the harbor after watching Eugene and Lance get _arrested_ and realizes that the sanctuary of the ship has been ripped away from him too.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Moira snarls. “Fitzherbert and Strongbow got themselves _arrested_ —”

“ _What?_ ”

Moira whips around, radiating fury up at the aftcastle. “Pocket! Cast off and sail to Garioch. Wait there; Cassandra and I’ll wait here for the kid and catch the ferry across the lake tomorrow morning.”

Relief crashes over Mael’s face, and as Pocket begins to bark orders to the crew, she lopes over the deck to slip the first set of moorings free. Cassandra lets out her breath in a rush and, catching Moira’s eye, says, “Owl—”

“Bring him.”

Nodding, Cassandra charges into the great cabin. Owl greets her with a grouchy hoot when she wakes him, but it only takes a little coaxing to persuade him to step down from his perch to her hand after she unclips his leash.

He flaps his wings, glaring like he’s considering slicing open a finger or two with his talons as she snaps on his jesses.

“Sorry, Owl,” she whispers. “It’s one of those days… again.”

His feathers are still clamped down in vexation when she strides out of the great cabin, fingers intact and her pulse chugging through her ears. _One night in an inn in Vardaros with Moira, Rapunzel, and Varian. On the day Lance and Eugene got arrested. What could_ possibly _go wrong?!_

Hysteria tinges her thoughts, but—she’ll take it over the alternative. It’s _only_ one night.

She’s two steps out of the great cabin and into the controlled chaos of the deck when she hears Varian’s voice, pitched with fear, ring out over the docks. “ _Cass!_ ”

“Kid—!”

Owl shrills at her, but she ignores the scolding in favor of leaning over the railing, searching the crowd of dockworkers and sailors for— _there!_

Varian thunders up the dock with a pile of shopping bags in his arms, tears streaming down his face, and Rapunzel shambling at his heels. The bags rain onto the _Zampermin’s_ deck as he mounts the gangplank, and Cassandra has just enough time to lift Owl clear before Varian plows into her. A sob rips through his slight frame. “Th-they took Lance and Eugene Cass we need to _help_ them—”

“We know,” Cassandra says, trying to sound soothing and confident and at all in control of this situation; she pats the top of her head, looking from Moira to Rapunzel to the hideous bruises swallowing her left eye and the wild, unfocused look in her right and _stars above, did somebody_ hit _Rapunzel?!_ “Kid, listen to me, it’s gonna be okay, but—”

“Oh _good._ ” Moira’s hand closes around Rapunzel’s arm like a vice, and as she yanks the Princess away from the gangplank, she hisses, “ _So glad_ you made it back in time. Pocket—scratch Garioch. We’re bouncing. _Now._ ”

“What?!” Rapunzel cries. “No– _no!_ We need to save Eugene—”

“—and Lance—”

“What part of _if you are not on my ship when I get back I will leave you behind_ didn’t you understand, _Princess?_ ” Moira snaps, voice low and choked with fury. “Your _boyfriend_ got arrested. You wanna take it up with Esclavo? Go for it! But the _Zampermin_ is _leaving_ —”

Rapunzel lunges at her with an inarticulate growl; Moira steps out of her path, and her clumsy punch swings wide by several inches.

“—oh, calm _down—_ ”

“ _You!_ ” Rapunzel spits the word out like a curse, baking with hatred and curdling around the edges into rage. “Do _not_ tell me to _calm down!_ We are _not_ leaving this harbor until we find Eugene. Nothing is more important than that. Not your ego, not the black rocks, not _you_. _Nothing._ Is— _that_ — _clear?!_ ”

She jabs her finger under Moira’s nose, breathing hard, and nobody moves. No sound but the creaking of the _Zampermin’s_ rigging and the water sloshing against her hull. Moira’s eyes narrow.

“Rapunzel–” Cassandra mutters.

“This is my ship,” Moira says in a bare, colorless whisper. “Stay, or go, Princess, I don’t _care,_ but the _Zampermin_ is—”

“Leaving so soon?”

The slow, oily drawl pours over deck and lands like a fist in Cassandra’s stomach. Deep footsteps punctuate the startled silence as Moira pales and draws herself upright; slowly, Cassandra turns toward the source of the voice.

Anthony.

He smiles as he steps down from the gangplank, boots hitting the deck with a heavy _thud,_ and skims his fingertips along the railing as if he’s checking for dust.

There are watchmen lined up on the dock. More than a dozen. Torches in hand, some stoic, others leering.

_Shit._

“I’m afraid we can’t allow that,” Anthony says. Malice shines in his eye. “Baron’s orders. This ship is now connected to a major investigation, you see. The infamous Flynn Rider and Lance Strongbow were seen disembarking from this vessel just an hour prior to their arrests. _Tsk, tsk._ ”

No one says anything. Even Moira just stares, white-faced, clutching her saber while her eyes flick down to the dock. She has to be running the same arithmetic Cassandra just did. They’re outnumbered. Badly.

And magic or not, the _Zampermin_ isn’t fireproof.

Anthony sweeps an eye over the deck, his smile growing wider as his gaze settles on Pocket. “Hello, Micah,” he says. “Always nice to catch up with family, isn’t it?”

Something ugly twists over Pocket’s face; he spits something in Eldoran, but whatever it is just makes Anthony snicker.

“You kiss Aunt Talitha with that mouth?”

Moira steps between them before Pocket can respond. “Just make your _point,_ ” she snaps.

“This ship is now in the custody of the Vardaros City Watch,” Anthony says with a smirk. “You and your crew are to vacate the premises at once. Do not leave town. Failure to cooperate with our investigation amounts to an obstruction of justice… and nobody wants that.”

His eye glitters. Moira’s fist tightens around the hilt of her saber, but she glances at the guards again and a nerve throbs in her jaw. She inhales: a cracked, splintering breath.

“Fine,” she whispers. “Everyone off the ship.”

## ❦

They gather up in front of one of the grimy taverns facing the lake a short while later, mired in shocked silence. Cassandra—not knowing what _else_ to do—keeps one arm locked around Varian’s shoulders, and watches Moira pace. Every few steps, her eyes drift back to the _Zampermin_ and the watchmen swarming over her deck, and then she whips around for another circuit.

Rapunzel huddles on the fringes of their group, cradling Pascal and looking miserable; the crew look rattled. Pocket is scowling out at the lake. Mael looks ready to hit something. The Lachaīs twins have their heads together, conversing in murmurs too quiet for Cassandra to make any of it out. Tirian crouches with an arm folded over his knees, picking chips of ice out from between the cobbles.

“ _So,_ ” Moira says, after maybe ten minutes of furious pacing. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. Pocket—take Sobēl and Elis. Talk to anyone you can think of who might be willing to help. Sitheach, I want you to raise every dead rat you can find. Figure out where Esclavo’s keeping the _idiots,_ and where the Duke of Carvajal is staying while he’s in the city.”

Her coat snaps behind her as she whirls around, eyes blazing. Sitheach shows their teeth in something a few steps shy of a smile, a harsh, knife-edged expression that makes her hackles rise.

“Mael, Helcha—watch the ship. Don’t get too close, and don’t do anything _stupid,_ but if they try to sink her—”

Fear heats the steel in her voice. Moira shakes her head, swallowing hard.

“—we’ll burn this city to the ground,” she mutters. “Just keep an eye out. I want a tally of how many of those _bastards_ are on board when we hit ’em back.”

“Righto,” Mael says.

“Rest of you…” Moira grimaces. “Split up. Ears to the ground. You know the drill. Regroup after sundown in Jalto Square. Cassandra, Varian… _Princess,_ you’re with me.”

“I can help,” Varian blurts out, rocking himself out of Cassandra’s embrace and then teetering in place like he’s not sure of his momentum; Ruddiger twines around his ankles with a low grumble. “I- I can… if someone helps me find an apothecary there’s some things I could whip up.”

Moira raises an eyebrow. “What things?”

“It- it depends on what ingredients– but, um, medicines at _least,_ stuff for disinfecting wounds and, and I’m– _hnn._ I know how to blow things up.” Desperation creeps into his tone; he takes another staggering step forward. “P-please. They took Lance. I want to help.”

A sigh hisses out between Moira’s teeth. She rubs her jaw, glancing over her shoulder at the _Zampermin_ again. Cassandra wonders, wincing, if she’s weighing the destruction Varian wrought on midwinter against the fact that he’s just a _kid_ who shouldn’t be anywhere near this fight.

“That… aunt of yours,” Moira mutters at length. “Adira.”

“…Yes?”

She swivels around to peer thoughtfully down at him. “You’re both connected to the black rocks,” she says.

“Uhm. Well, I think _connected_ might be a strong—”

“And the moonstone.”

“…S-sort of?”

“Think you could contact her?”

Paling, Varian reaches up to touch the scarred side of his face. “You… you mean with—”

“With magic, yeah.”

“Um.” He licks his lips. “Maybe? I could– I could _try._ I’d need some silver—”

“Take Renard,” Moira says. “He’ll get you whatever you need. Then—apothecaries, sure. Make us some salves. But that woman went toe-to-toe with a _scion_ and held her own, and two weeks on horseback… I imagine she’s not _too_ far from Vardaros by now. If you can get her here, that’d be helpful.”

“Okay,” Varian whispers. His hands shake as he runs them through his hair, but he bolts a determined scowl onto his face and then nods, once. “Okay. I’ll try.”

Moira claps his shoulder. “Good. Get to it.”

The crew—plus Varian—disperses into the chilly afternoon. Cassandra watches them go more to delay the inevitable than anything, stuffing her hands into her pockets and trying to ignore the anxious churning in her gut. Mael prowls along the lakeshore, her eyes on the _Zampermin,_ while Helcha eases into a casual-looking amble several paces behind her. Sitheach makes a beeline for the dankest alleyway in sight, thumbing the pale hilt of their knife with an unsettling amount of eagerness.

The noon sun beats down, glaring against the frozen city.

Gulping, Cassandra looks from Moira, to Rapunzel, and back again. Venom gleams in Moira’s eyes behind the hard mask of her resolve; Rapunzel lists a little to one side, looking like she might be sick from either the concussion or the company she’s been forced to keep. Maybe both.

Probably both.

_And then there were three._


	6. Chapter 6: Setting Fire to the Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late again! Sorry. Vardaros has been killing me ~~which is what I get for leaving this whole section as, like, a ten sentence long paragraph in my rough draft vjkbjksdfh~~. Next chapter is about one third of the way done, though, because I chopped off a big chunk of this one, so barring unforeseen difficulty our next chapter should be up this Sunday!
> 
> Enjoy :D

###  **Chapter 6: Setting Fire to the Cage**

Lance Strongbow is not a short-tempered man.

He never has been. Anger comes to him in slow trickles, and most of the time it’s easier to scoop up the first droplets of ire and track them to their source than to dam them up and wait for the flood. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere: plopping down buckets, or getting on the roof to patch the broken shingles. Hard work and a hammer in exchange for dry houses. Something like that. _Yeah._

…But the point is, he doesn’t get _mad_ much.

He’d been angry after Eugene left eight years ago. While the Baron raged and Stalyan sat in her room and cried and it felt like kai spiders were raining from the ceiling, and Lance couldn’t do a thing about any of it except hunker down and look after his own self, he’d dived deep into his own private well and fury.

Him and Stalyan and Flynn—they were a _team._

It wasn’t supposed to end like that.

And Lance had wanted to track him down, grab him by the collar, and _shake_ him hard enough to maybe knock loose a grain or two of concern for other people from that conniving, egotistical brain of his. He’d wanted, in the maddening deluge of that first awful week, to really _kick his ass._

Then he cooled down, because Marcus was on the warpath and getting mad made you stupid, and getting stupid made you dead, and Lance was too young and too pretty to die. Anyway, he’d known how Flynn was for years. So he waited and watched, lining things up for his own escape, and resigned himself to Flynn Rider: thief extraordinaire, ex-best friend, and object lesson in not relying on _selfish dickheads._

As lessons went it had been a good one. Lance split and got himself better friends, and… everything happened for the best, in the end. Thief-taking. He paid his dues, tidied up after himself, and learned to stop looking over his shoulder too much. It wasn’t _cozy,_ but he made it work.

Lance shuffles into their dank cell in the bowels of the old jailhouse, eyeing the mildew sliming the rough walls and feeling the stiff throb in his chest where a copper’s baton undid all the good Sitheach’s fancy bone magic had done for him after Janus Point— _well gee, officer, thanks!_ —and considers whether he’s angry again now.

_Yeah._

_You prick,_ he thinks in Eugene’s general direction.

It’s familiar, which isn’t much comfort. Two wooden cots bolted to the walls. Rusted grate in the floor. Foul stains and the stale old stench of unwashed bodies and waste. Standard stuff—but Lance hasn’t seen the inside of a cell in years, and the reek turns his stomach like it never did when they were kids.

Eugene collapses onto the nearest cot with his head in his hands. Behind them, the guard slams the door shut and locks it with the customary leer and sneer. Lance scowls back, out of habit more than anything, and then eases himself down on the other cot.

The guard marches away. He gives it a count of ten.

Then he says, “Sixteen.”

“I get it,” Eugene grumbles.

“Do you?” Raising his eyebrows, Lance leans forward— _hrk! nope!_ —and rocks back upright, wheezing. Pain sizzles through his side. “’Cause—I’m not sure you _do,_ Eugene. Sixteen outstanding warrants?! And you thought we’d just… what? Mosey right on down the Promenade for a nice outing with your date and a _kid?_ ”

Him too, come to that. Lance is a grown-up, sure, and he knows how Vardaros can be… but he’d also taken a calculated risk based on the assumption—the normal, _reasonable_ assumption—that Eugene had, just like him, settled his accounts and paid his dues before swaggering in to thumb his nose at Marcus Esclavo.

_Idiot._

Anger froths in his chest. Rivers of it. A whole damn _lake._

“I mean, what the hell, Eugene?”

“Oh, get off the high horse,” Eugene replies, snapping his head up. “ _You’ve_ got plenty of warrants too—”

“No,” Lance says coolly, “I don’t. Because I took care of it.” He can’t take a deep, calming breath, so he settles for a few slow and careful sips of air instead. “I saved up. Paid my weregild. Got the paperwork squared away. Magistrate in Chilon helped me sort things out with the Baron, as a favor. I’m _free and clear,_ Eugene. My slate’s clean.” His voice sours. He doesn’t bother hiding it. “And I _earned_ that.”

“I earned my pardon too.” Eugene tucks himself into his shoulders, glaring at the walls rather than meeting Lance’s gaze.

“Pardon in Corona doesn’t mean squat here,” Lance says. “C’mon, man. You know that. And those six months you spent sitting pretty on a king’s favor, you could’ve used to clean up this mess.”

Eugene grimaces like he’s just swallowed something bitter, and Lance, satisfied, sloshes his anger down the drain.

“Why didn’t you?” he asks, quieter.

“I guess I just… didn’t want to think about it,” Eugene sighs, slumping forward onto his elbows. “Herzingen, you know… the palace, and _Rapunzel_ – it all seemed like such a dream come true, and I… worried. Like if I dwelled too much on the past it might come back to haunt me, and then I’d lose everything.”

“That was pretty dumb.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that _now._ ” He groans. “So now… what. Either I marry Stalyan and break Rapunzel’s heart, or Marcus has us both sent to the mines and we die coughing up silver ore.”

“Oooh. Tough call.”

This gets him a withering look. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who ends up married to _that._ ”

“I’m just sayin’. Stalyan? _Not_ worse than mining for the rest of our lives. Or… maybe just yours. Clean slate, remember?”

No response.

Shrugging, Lance turns his attention to the crude stonework. Let Eugene chase his thoughts in miserable silence for a while; _he_ doesn’t deserve this either, thoughtless decisions or not. It’s got to be hard.

Still. Lance knows how this ends. Raw self-interest will win out over the qualms Eugene has about marrying Stalyan—or more to the point, playing this game just long enough to run for it.

He’s not so sure of his _own_ future.

Free and clear—sure. But phony charges have brought down plenty of men with straighter edges than he, and the Baron has a panoply of other methods at his disposal in the event the legal means fail.

And broken ribs slow you down. Looking out for your friends slows you down. Lance knows how _that_ ends, too. Back in their thieving days, _Flynn_ never hesitated to cut his losses and vanish when things got hot. Lance can’t count the number of times he or Stalyan were left holding the bag. They’d gotten used to it, and used to having each other’s backs when Flynn pulled one of his disappearing acts.

That was just _Flynn._ Fair-weather to the bone.

Maybe Eugene’s grown up. Maybe he hasn’t.

Lance isn’t gonna hold his breath to find out.

So. If Eugene cuts and runs without him… Well. Marcus doesn’t—so far as Lance knows—harbor _him_ any personal grudges, and neither does Stalyan, but that doesn’t make being alone and at the mercy of two angry people with a lot of power and not much in the way of moral compunction any better a spot to be. Duke of Carvajal’s an uncertain variable, though one without any particular reason to intervene for Lance’s sake. Caine, too. Cassandra. Rapunzel.

Uncertain variables aren’t much better than selfish dickheads.

_So, Lance, what’ll we do then?_

He’s pondering an appeal to Stalyan’s sparse better nature when Eugene interrupts him. “Do you think Rapunzel’s okay?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah,” Lance says, cramming sunny confidence into the words. “She’s tough, Eugene. So’s Varian. They’ll be just fine.”

 _If they made it back to the ship,_ he adds. Pointless concern to voice to Eugene, who can’t see past the aloof disregard the pirates have for his Princess… but Lance has been paying attention. He’s watched the crew close ranks around Varian inch by inch, won over by the kid’s enthusiastic curiosity and sympathetic to the nightmares that leave him whimpering and shaking in his sleep most nights. And Rapunzel has got Cass, if no one else. They’re safer on the _Zampermin_ than wandering Vardaros alone, no matter what Eugene thinks.

Eugene grunts, looking dour.

Probably he’s thinking about the knock Rapunzel took. It _had_ looked nasty. Damned Weasel. Who hits without a warning? Who _does_ that?

Lance blows out air through his teeth, then says, “Look, Eugene, I know you’re worried—”

The old, familiar racket of the jailhouse door scrapes down the corridor, and Lance goes silent, cocking his head. Never pays to be chatting when the guards come through. Can’t be getting _comfy._

Except this isn’t a guard.

Footsteps— _small_ ones. Quiet. Sneaky.

_Kids._

Two of them. His swallowed words of comfort leak out in an aching sigh as the pair tip-toes up to the cell door. Little girls, maybe seven or eight years old: one with a pinched, scowling little face and a thatch of messy black hair, and the other taller, freckly, with big green eyes curtained behind ginger locks.

 _Ah,_ Lance thinks, heart sinking into his stomach, _ah, no._

They’d started like that, too. Him and Eugene. Earning pennies running errands for the same crooked guards who’d look the other way if little valuables went missing.

“Lunch,” sneers the dark-haired one. The tray rattles as she shoves it through the slot at the bottom of the cell door. Gruel slops everywhere. Red hovers at her shoulder, fidgeting.

“…Hey, there,” Lance says, trying to wipe any trace of pity out of his expression. Eugene flows off the cot to kneel in front of the tray, stricken. “What are your names?”

The girls exchange glances. Dark Hair smirks. “She doesn’t talk much,” she says, jerking her chin at Red. “But they call us the _Bidnis_ sisters. I’m Nonya.”

“Nonya Bidnis.” Lance snorts, regrets it, and moans through a grimace, “Heh—that’s f-funny—”

“But seriously, girls—”

“We don’t talk to prisoners.” Dark Hair— _Nonya,_ sure, why not—juts out her chin at Eugene, all proud defiance. “We just bring the food.”

“No, but listen— _hey._ ” Before she can spring away, Eugene snakes a hand through the bars to catch her wrist. Nonya freezes, and Red goes stock still, terror flashing over her face. “…Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. I just– listen, alright? You work for the Baron, right? Can you get us the keys to this cell?”

Nonya narrows her eyes. “Why would we do _that._ ”

“Because we can help you,” Eugene says, quick and low. “This life? Getting involved with the Baron, _stealing_ —just, trust me, a life of crime is not not a viable long-term career. And this—” he pats his own chest wryly “—This is what passes for job security with Marcus.”

“That’s right. It’s not worth it.”

Rolling her eyes, Nonya squirms out of Eugene’s grip and skips backward, crowding Red behind her. Out of arm’s length. “We know the real story,” she says primly. “ _You_ stole from the Baron. People who do _that_ get hurt.”

“…Yes,” Eugene says, wincing. “But the thing is, sooner or later, _everyone_ crosses the Baron somehow, see? He’ll change the rules just to cut you down, to remind you that he _can._ It isn’t safe—”

“Maybe you were just bad thieves,” Nonya scoffs.

“Bad—! _Bad thieves!_ ” Eugene splutters. “Pardon _me,_ we were _great–_ we were the _best!_ We’re Flynn Rider and Lance Strongbow, kid! We _ruled_ these streets, thankyouverymuch!”

Lance catches Red’s gaze over the top of Eugene’s coifed, indignant head and makes a grand show of rolling his eyes; her mouth twitches. A tiny giggle escapes her.

“That was _then,_ ” Nonya says, folding her arms. “Now you’re a couple has-beens and _we_ rule the streets.”

“Pretty big talk for a couple of pipsqueaks.”

Stalyan.

Her voice rolls down from the jailhouse door like a glacier, slow and inevitable, and Nonya squeaks, clutching Red’s arm.

“Scram,” Stalyan says.

The girls bolt. The quick patter of their footsteps fade, and the _click-clack_ of Stalyan’s heeled boots rings down the corridor instead as she struts into view.

“Well, _well._ ” She leans against the doorframe, crossing one foot over the other and stabbing the pointed toe of her boot into the floor, and lifts an eyebrow. “Every mountain really _does_ fall, huh?”

“Stalyan,” Eugene whispers, paling. “Come on. This is insane—”

As he scrambles to his feet, Stalyan looks past him. Her gaze tracks down from Lance’s split lip to his bloodied collar, and then to the injured side he’s cradling. She clicks her tongue. “Doin’ alright, Lance?”

“Oh, you know me. Didn’t need those ribs anyhow.”

“ _Stalyan—!_ ”

“ _What,_ Rider?” Exasperation curdles the dregs of her concern; she offers Eugene a narrow-eyed stare. “You gonna spin me your sad little love story? Don’t bother. We’ve all heard it by now. The ne’er-do-well thief and the sweet, innocent princess from the tower. Romantic.”

Her smile could freeze lightning in its tracks.

“But… _yeah,_ ” she sighs. “See, here’s the thing, Flynn—”

“—it’s _Eugene_ now—”

“—I don’t care about all of… _that._ ”

“Stalyan, I _can not_ marry you—I love Ra–”

“Y’know, I think you’ve actually gotten _worse_ at listening?” Stalyan chuckles, bitterly, and snaps, “Stop _talking,_ for once in your life. I didn’t want this _either._ ”

_…Oh._

_Oh, shit._

“…You what?” Eugene whispers.

Slouching, she scrapes her nails against the cell bars. “I’d just as soon never see you again, Flynn. You already broke my heart _once_ —not to mention the _embarrassment_ —I’m not about to let you do it again.”

“But… then—”

“Dad doesn’t like to lose things,” Stalyan says flatly. “And _you,_ Flynn Rider. You were the son he never got to have. His protégé. His pride and joy. Losing you, well, it made him see all the other little things that might… _slip_ through his grasp.”

“You,” Lance says.

Her glare is hazy with anger; thick with the smoke of fires that have been burning a long, _long_ time. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Eight years,” she breathes, as her eyes flick back toward Eugene. “And then who should I hear about but _you,_ Flynn? Liberating damsels from their towers. Sort of perfect, isn’t it?”

“Stalyan, I–”

“Shut _up!_ We heard about what you did in Corona. I told Dad I wanted to go to you—find you, bring you _back._ He told me not to worry, that he’d take care of it.” A sneer curls her lip. “Well. _This_ is him taking care of it.”

## ❦

Horseshoe nails.

Linen.

Twine.

Whiskey.

Moira drifts from shop to shop with a placid mask bolted over the fury storming through her mind. Silence shrouds their little trio—punctuated by pathetic sniffles from the _idiot Princess,_ and by Cassandra’s soothing, wordless murmurs.

She hears it when Cassandra figures out the shopping list. As Moira nestles whiskey bottles into her coat pockets, Cassandra inhales—a hard rasp of a sound. Startled.

_Varian’s not the only one who can blow things up, honey._

Moira bares her teeth. The silence holds.

Paraffin oil.

And tar.

The _Zampermin_ screams for her as she stalks through the city. Itchy, reproachful heat crawls underneath her shirt, tracing the filigree patterns of copper ink tattooed along her shoulders and down her spine. Sulfur and pine resin flavor the air.

It tears at her. Moira slows, gritting her teeth through each step away from the docks. Phantasms of unfamiliar footsteps march down her arms. They’re tossing the cabins, and the ship is _seething._

 _I’m coming._ Her coat drags against her shoulders, weighted down with alcohol and oil and tar and blind rage. _It’s going to take a day. Just… hold on._

She still doesn’t know how much the _Zampermin_ understands of her thoughts. The ship speaks in the creak of rigging and whisper of surf against the hull, in flashes of color and taste and sensation and… for all Moira knows, all the ship feels in return is the thump of her heart and the anger thundering in her veins. Growing distance. Abandonment. Fear.

 _Hold on,_ she thinks again. _I’m sorry._

It _burns._

Her fingers tremble as she wraps them around of the whiskey bottle and doubles her grip on the hilt of her saber, breathing shakily. _Focus. Don’t panic. Think._

The street claws itself open just ahead, and Moira sinks deeper into stony silence as she prowls into Jalto Square.

 _Square’s_ really a generous term. It’s a ragged stretch of dirty cobbles, carved like a scar between piles of dingy shops and tenement buildings and taverns near the northern edge of Bren Erca. Some high-and-mighty bronze statue poses on a plinth in the middle, bracketed by benches, face obscured by a curtain of bird droppings. Grubby merchant parade through the slush, hawking wares from trays and carts, and a handful of children squeal with laughter as they chase each other back and forth along a thick streak of ice in the statue’s shadow.

Moira hadn’t expected her crew to make it here before she did, but their absence stirs a cold draft of unease even so. Last thing she wants to do is sit here alone, waiting—with _them._

She shoots another tight-lipped glower over her shoulder. It goes ignored, just like all the others have done. Cassandra had practically _flown_ to Rapunzel’s side once the crew scattered, and the Princess has been tucked against her side ever since: scrubbed tearfully, pitifully clean of her righteous indignation by the cold slap of reality and—if the bleary look in her eyes is anything to judge by—also a concussion.

It’s a mark of how _shitty_ today has been that she can’t even dredge up an ounce of amusement over that _magnificent_ black eye.

“May as well sit,” Moira spits. Dull pain taps its way down her spine. The pulpy feeling of a crate overturned, shattering against her shoulder. Something—rice maybe—spilling out. _They’re in the hold._ “We’ll be here a while.”

_Keep it together. Come on._

She releases her breath in an anxious rattle, and the Princess cracks. Her tearful whimpers spill over into a wrenching sob, and the last, brittle tether of Moira’s self control snaps.

_Brat._

“Stop _crying,_ ” she hisses, rounding on them. “This is—”

“Moira–”

“—your _fault!_ ” Grabbing the Princess by the chin, Moira yanks her head up so she can glare straight into those sad, stupid, self-important eyes. “We could’ve been halfway to Carvajal by now, but you just _had_ to go _shopping_ —”

Cassandra’s fist slams into her shoulder, and Moira reels backward—more startled than hurt—breathing hard. The Princess cringes into Cassandra’s side, whimpering. Moira licks her lips, tasting the cold sting of the air. Her skin crawls.

“I hope it was worth it, _Sunshine._ ”

“Don’t,” Cassandra says. “Please. It isn’t helping.”

_I’m sick of it._

_Get over yourself._

_…Tell me what you need._

Snorting, Moira swivels on her heel to scowl up at the disgusting statue instead. She clenches her jaw, crowding back the bitter, hateful things swelling on her tongue.

She’d really—

She really did think this would be easier.

Unification Day gave her a box seat to the drama of the Princess’s blithe, spoiled disregard for anyone but herself… and in Alcorsīa, she saw how fondness softens the severe planes of Cassandra’s face whenever she thinks about Rapunzel. Midwinter painted the extremes of Cassandra’s devotion in gruesome detail. That had been enough to convince Moira to give the Princess the benefit of the doubt. Ignorance she could forgive; the bumbling mistakes of an isolated teenager, likewise.

There had to be a reason Cassandra was so hung up on her.

_Second chances. Tch. I should’ve left her in Alcorsīa._

She hadn’t counted on Cassandra falling apart at the seams because the Princess picked at her like a loose thread. She hadn’t anticipated that every glimpse of gossamer blonde hair and the grown-up face of the baby in the posters would make her gorge rise.

Nothing could’ve prepared her for the reality of watching the precious Lost Princess of Corona flounce around her ship like she _owned_ it. Like they owed her anything. Like—

Moira crosses her arms, glowering.

It _shouldn’t_ be this hard.

It hadn’t been Rapunzel who let Saporia rot when the blight tore through their cities. The Princess hadn’t ordered the executions of innocent farmers, and she hadn’t unleashed the flood of brutal arrests that came after. She didn’t send Moira’s father to die on a prison barge in the frigid northern waters of the Lost Sea for the awful crime of stealing _food_ to feed his _child._

But Frederic had done all of that in _her_ name.

Her hands are clean, but her _throne_ is soaked with Saporian blood and she lounges in it anyway, complacent, outraged by their distrust and wallowing in self-pity because nobody _likes_ her.

Coronan through and through.

_I should leave her here._

“…come sit down, Raps,” Cassandra murmurs behind her, gentle and weary and the thorn in Moira’s side. “Come on. It’s… it… is what it is, alright? But it’ll be okay.”

They shuffle into her periphery. Moira grinds her teeth together as Cassandra coaxes the Princess onto one of the benches. Patient. Compassionate. Brushing hair out of her face—

 _Like a parent consoling a child,_ Moira thinks, with almost enough spite to quench the jealous embers smoldering in her gut. She turns her face away. _Drop dead, Princess._

“We’ll rescue Lance and Eugene,” Cassandra continues softly, “and then we’ll get the ship back—” Moira bites her tongue, stiffening. “—and… things can get better. Really.”

Doubt wears her voice thin. Rolling her eyes, Moira rubs her thumb over the pommel of her saber. Glimmers of opalescence dance along the edges of her vision, and her head pounds. She hikes up her shoulders, trying to will it way.

_I’m coming. Hold on._

Hiccuping, the Princess mumbles, “I j-just want us to be friends again.”

“We _are–_ we never stopped being—”

“Yes we _did._ Y-you– you _left_ me.” She lets out a sulky, shuddering breath. “You left and n-now it’s– you spend all your time with _her_ —”

“Rapunzel—”

“—and I just, I can’t understand _why,_ she’s _awful_ a-and—”

“She is my _friend,_ ” Cassandra snaps, very much not gentle anymore, and in spite of the budding migraine a thin smile tugs at Moira’s lips. “You need to accept that. No— _no_ arguments. You don’t get to choose who I do and don’t like.”

It’s curt. Polished. _Practiced._ Stripped of inflection and served on ice and it, ridiculously, makes warmth flutter in her chest. Moira scuffs her toe against the cobbles, exasperated with herself.

The Princess whispers something else. Cassandra groans. “Yes, well, pots and kettles, Raps. You haven’t exactly put _your_ best foot forward. Both of you are acting like children.”

The warmth gutters out. Irked, Moira throws a sullen glance over her shoulder—and finds Cassandra smiling smugly at her over the top of the Princess’s empty little head.

“Believe it or not, Raps,” Cassandra says, while Moira huffs and turns back to the statue, “she’s a good person. She’s been _there_ for me this whole time. She’s not as cold or unfeeling as she likes to pretend—”

“She only cares about herself.”

 _No, Sunshine, I just don’t care about_ you.

“That’s not true,” Cassandra hums. “She cares about her ship, and the crew, and her family… and me.” Hesitance fractures the last word, and Moira frowns. _Honey,_ what _is it going to take—_ “We tried to find Varian, you know? Before midwinter. And then she came with me to help _you,_ because I asked her to. She risked her life, and now she’s bringing you to Aphelion—”

More mumbling, too muffled against Cassandra’s chest to decipher.

“…Well, no,” Cassandra says, snorting, “not out of the ‘goodness of her heart’—but does that really _matter,_ Raps? This whole trip would be a lot harder if you weren’t traveling on an airship. If she’d left you at Janus Point you probably wouldn’t even have made it out of Corona yet. My point is—” she sighs heavily “—just give her a _chance,_ alright? You can’t… treat her like she’s horrible and expect her to still like you.”

_…Well, then._

Startled, Moira blinks into the sullen quiet that follows this calm pronouncement.

She _is_ selfish. She knows that. She _embraces_ that. Moira is greedy and self-serving and callous, and that doesn’t bother her one bit—but she _does_ care about Cassandra, the noble, selfless, selfish idiot.

So their fight this morning had stung. It _still_ stings, under the hurricane of furious terror for the _Zampermin._

Oh, Moira had seen Cassandra’s anger crater into regret the _second_ she struck a real nerve, but regret or not—half-hearted apologies or not—she’d still _meant_ it. People always do, deep down. Every word spoken in anger has a kernel of truth buried somewhere.

The Princess gets her litany of excuses; Moira gets… _that._

Not that Moira wants fawning excuses, but—still. It’s a bitter, envious feeling. A howling indignation at the unfairness of it all. But…

But _this._ Moira preens, elevated from the brackish shoals of this _awful_ day for one warm, airy moment.

_It’ll do. For now._

Until they burn the Baron’s manor to the ground, slaughter every last one of the men putting their hands all over _her_ ship, and bounce out of this stinking dump of a city. Then they’re due a serious talk about where they stand—and what kinds of treatment Moira will and _won’t_ tolerate.

For the moment, though, she smiles.

## ❦

“It’s our best option,” Stalyan says calmly. She strides back and forth in front of the cell like she used to when they were just kids planning their next heist. Tight, precise lines. An intent scowl on her face. Every rap of her heels against the floor hammers the dread a little deeper into Eugene’s stomach.

She hasn’t been _pining_ for him all these years at all. This isn’t lovesick fantasies decayed into obsession.

It’s so much worse.

She’s suffocating. Angry. And she’s _thought_ about this.

“Stalyan…”

“We get married,” she says, whirling through another circuit. “Dad is happy. _You_ get a clean record. Dad drops the false new charges against Lance. _I_ get a little more room to breath. Then we keep our heads down for a few months, maybe a year, until Dad calms down and we can get out—the three of us. We’ll head to Carvajal and get the marriage annulled on our way out of Eldora, and then it’ll be like old times. You’re making it harder than it needs to be, Flynn.”

“It is _Eugene,_ ” he says tiredly. Has she heard even a _single_ word he’s said? “And it _isn’t_ as simple as you seem to think it is, because—as I’ve been _saying_ —”

“Yes, yes, you’re ‘in love’ with Princess Rapunzel.” Stalyan rolls her eyes, bringing her face close to his and curling her fingers around the cell bars. “But let me ask you something,” she murmurs. “Do you _really_ think it’s fair to ask a girl who spent the first eighteen years of her life in prison to spend the rest of her life with someone… like _you?_ ”

“Rapunzel doesn’t care about my record.”

“Not what I meant.”

“And I’m not a thief anymore!”

“No.” The temperature of her smile falls by several degrees. “But you’re still… _you,_ Flynn.”

He winces.

_Ah. Yeah. Could’ve seen that one coming._

Stalyan—he’d _loved_ her. He had. But it had been tumultuous—fraught with arguments, and drama, and—well. He gave her plenty of reason to assume he wouldn’t think twice about marrying her despite professing his love for somebody else, didn’t he? Flynn Rider was an arrogant flirt who’d dangled marriage like bait to let himself out of his cage, at _her_ expense. Of course he would betray his new love to save his own skin.

But he’s Eugene now. Not Flynn Rider.

“I’ve changed, Stalyan,” he says quietly, willing her to understand. “I’m sorry for how I hurt you—really, truly, I am—but… _Rapunzel_ changed me, and I love her. I can’t go along with this.”

Her eyes narrow to slits, and when she opens her mouth, Eugene can all but see the fangs flicking down with venom at the ready—

Lance clears his throat noisily. “I uh, _interesting_ as this discussion is, you two… Looks like I’ve gotta be the one with the brains for once. No offense, Stalyan.”

“Hey–!”

Stalyan snickers. Smirking at him, Lance picks himself up off his cot and moves gingerly to the front of the show. “Just call me _peacemaker,_ heh, ’cause I’m—”

“Oh, cut the theatrics, Strongbow.”

“Just like old times,” Lance says with a grin. “But, look. Stalyan… you don’t really wanna marry Eugene; you just want out, yeah? And Eugene doesn’t wanna marry you, because—trust me on this one—he’s all _googly-eyed_ for the Princess—”

“I do _not_ make ‘googly eyes.’”

“He _so_ does.” Lance makes a ridiculous kissy face at him, then squawks when Eugene swats him. “Hey! Hey, mind the _ribs—_ anyway point is, we’re all after the same thing, here. Getting out of Vardaros. Doesn’t matter _how,_ so much.”

That statement dangles pointedly. Lance lifts his eyebrows, waiting.

_Oh. Oh!_

“That’s it!” Eugene gasps. “Lance, you’re a genius—”

“Eh, I have my moments.”

“Stalyan, if you help us escape—no, really, listen!” He wraps his hands over hers before she can pull away, ignoring the skeptical lift of one perfect brow. “Tonight, after it’s dark, if you can get us outta this cell, _we_ can get each other out of Vardaros. All of us. You and me and Lance.”

“Because you were always _so_ keen to help Lance and I out of trouble before.” Glaring, Stalyan tugs her hands free. Makes a show of wiping them off on her skirt. _Great._ “Why should I trust you now?”

“Because–”

His enthusiasm for the new plan falters. What’s six months of personal growth in Corona, far away from her, against her lifetime of knowing _Flynn?_ Lance had forgiven him, and took his fresh start in stride, but Eugene had burned Stalyan a lot harder than he did Lance… and she’s got a _lot_ more riding on this. He deflates, sighing.

“I… can’t give you a reason, Stalyan,” he admits. “There’s no proof. I’ve changed, but I know that’s a line you’ve heard before and you have no reason to believe me when I say it’s different _this_ time. But– but I promise, if you can find it in you to give me just one more chance—I _promise_ I won’t let you down. We’ll get you out of Vardaros.”

Stalyan purses her lips, watching him with a catlike sort of disdain. Gulping, he tries to arrange his features into a contrite, trustworthy smile. It feels closer to a grimace.

 _Please,_ he thinks. _Please just listen._

Then she glances at Lance. Her other eyebrow lifts to join the first. Inquiring, more than skeptical.

“Can’t see Caine sayin’ _no,_ ” Lance says. “Didn’t seem like she liked your Dad much. Besides, the _Zampermin’s_ way faster than horseback. She got us here all the way from the coast in a _week._ ”

“All of that assumes Caine didn’t just _leave,_ ” Eugene mutters.

“Yeah,” Stalyan says, shadows flickering in her eyes. “About that.”

“…What… is it?”

She runs her tongue over her teeth, sighing. “Dad also impounded your friend’s ship.”

“What?!”

“Okay, let’s be clear, _that woman_ is _not_ our friend—”

“You know how he gets with… _things._ ” Stalyan pinches the bridge of her nose. “He’s a thief with a small army of guards. Ostensibly it’s only for the duration of the inquiry, but he’ll find some excuse to make it permanent. He always does.”

“Well that– that is not great news.” He runs his fingers through his hair—it’s so _dry, eurgh, what he wouldn’t give for a real bath with real conditioner—_ “But it does mean Caine’s still in town… and so is Rapunzel. And if I know Rapunzel—”

“Can’t see either of them taking this lying down.”

“Wait. The Princess is _here?_ ” Stalyan asks, bewildered. “In Vardaros?!”

“Well—”

“No! Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Just— _shh._ ” Stalyan steps away from the cell, her jaw working fiercely. Her _thoughtful_ face. Eugene holds his breath. “…Fine. _Okay._ ”

“You’ll do it?!”

“I will _think about it,_ ” she says icily. “And I’ll try to get in touch with Caine. See what she’s planning. If I can get a guarantee of passage out of Eldora from _her…_ then I’ll come back around midnight. We can slip down to the docks, liberate the ship, and get out of here.”

Eugene squeezes the bars, not daring to hope yet. “And… if not?”

She studies him. Cold. Distrust and obstinance and old pain fermented into malice glitters in her eyes.

“Then we’ll go with _my_ plan,” she says at last, holding out her hand. “Agreed?”

He knows that look. The stubborn tilt of her chin, the narrowed eyes. The hard pout and tight jaw. She’s not going to budge a single inch more. That she compromised _at all_ is a miracle.

It’s their best shot.

Sighing, he reaches through the bars to clasp her hand.

“Agreed,” he says.

## ❦

Dusk folds over Vardaros with nerve-wracking hesitation. The sunset gives the sky a jaundiced tinge, and Cassandra bounces her foot impatiently against the freezing slush as the daylight fades.

Rapunzel fades with it: nodding off against her shoulder, and whining every time Cassandra stirs. Owl wings away from his perch on the statue to hunt for mice in the maze of the city.

And Moira paces. She cuts ragged trails across the square, twitching. One of the street vendors stumbled into her path about half an hour ago, and she’d snarled something at him in Eldoran that made his face go paper-white before he turned tail and _ran._ Beyond that, she hasn’t spoken a word all afternoon.

It’s _unnerving._

The rest of the crew come skulking in with the gathering shadows and give her a wide berth. Otter arrives with several bundles of rope looped over his shoulder. Then Renard and Varian, their pockets bulging; Varian flops onto the bench next to Cassandra, mumbling under his breath while he scribbles sigils onto the back of a little silver hand mirror with a lump of chalk. Tirian slinks past the food carts on his way in and joins the rest of them with a stack of greasy meat pies.

Cassandra’s halfway through hers when she spots Helcha jogging into the square. She flashes nine fingers, and then two more, in Moira’s direction as she strides their way.

_Eighteen._

Poor odds.

They’d been outnumbered worse than that in Socona… but Vardaros is a sprawling city with the sprawling law enforcement that entails. The constabulary in Socona couldn’t count on reinforcements. Anthony and his little fleet of watchmen _can._

Swallowing hard, she rubs Rapunzel’s back.

_Don’t think about it. Fight. Pray the morning comes._

“How is she?” Helcha murmurs, glancing at Rapunzel as she steps into the loose circle the crew has formed around Cassandra’s bench.

“Tired,” Cassandra says.

“Um, that man—Anthony?—he’s the one who punched her,” Varian volunteers, as he scoots closer to Cassandra to make room on the bench; Helcha sinks down beside him. “Then she fell, and hit the back of her head. So. As soon as we get, uh, wherever we’re staying tonight, she should rest. Sleep. Willow tea can help with the pain if she needs it—me and Renard found an apothecary…”

“Brains are a little outside Sitheach’s purview,” Helcha says dryly. “But perhaps they ought to check for fractures, later. If Her Highness is amenable.”

“’m fine.”

“That’s great, Raps,” Cassandra says, patting her shoulder. “Just relax for now, okay? Try to eat a bit.”

“Hey, Helcha.” Otter’s voice falls like a ponderous weight over Rapunzel’s quiet protestations of not being hungry. “How’s it lookin’ with the ship?”

“Bad,” she replies crisply. “Doubles patrolling the deck and a few quads posted along the docks. They stripped the cabins and tossed the hold, too. Anthony left about an hour ago, and it quieted down rather a lot after that.”

He whistles, low. “Mael on watch?”

“Mm. And in the meantime we’re waiting on— _ah._ Here they come.”

Cassandra follows her gaze to one of the narrow side-streets skittering away from the square just as Pocket flows out of the gloom. Four strangers trail behind them, flanked by Sobēl and Elis.

One of the newcomers is a brawny woman whose face looks like it shattered once and then smeared her features into lopsided disarray while it healed; another woman plods next to her, squat and pockmarked, squinting in their direction with small, beady eyes. She has her arm tucked around the elbow of a sallow, rickety fellow twice her height—all bones, with long inky hair and a fussy beard. A wiry black man takes up the rear: wrapped up in a faded green cloak, wearing a longsword and a stern frown.

“That’s Talitha Halloran,” Helcha mutters leaning closer as she indicates the pockmarked woman. “Pocket’s mother. Skinny one’s his brother Eran.”

“I take it Anthony’s the family black sheep?”

Her lips twitch. “They don’t get on, no.”

“Who are the others?”

“Well,” Otter drawls before Helcha can answer, as the newcomers merge with the rest of the crew. “If it isn’t Quaid the _Blade._ Heard you retired.”

“More like got forced out.” Quaid’s quiet voice sounds like he’s gargling sand. “Not a good time to be a lawman with principles in Vardaros, is it.” He glances down to Varian, and then to Cassandra, dark eyes lingering. “Who’s the new folks?”

“This is Cassandra,” Helcha says. “Varian. The Princess.”

“Micah did mention her,” Quaid says, eyeing Rapunzel with mild interest. “Well. Nice to make your acquaintances. Sorry it couldn’t be under better circumstances. _This_ —” he nods to the brawny woman “—is Paloma Lamech.”

Paloma grins, revealing a mouthful of teeth as messed-up as the rest of her face. “Got y’selves in a real mess of a situation, huh?” she grunts. Her accent’s thick enough to choke on. “Caine bite off any heads yet?”

“Well—”

“Enough chatter.” Moira’s voice cuts over Cassandra’s like a blade. The crew parts for her and melts back together as she carves into their midst, clutching something small and black. A pouch of some kind. “Everyone up. We’ve got a long walk.”

The pouch twitches—

And lifts its _head_. Cassandra catches her breath as she guides a lurching Rapunzel to her feet, and the creature pokes its mangy little snout between Moira’s fingers.

It’s a rat.

A _dead_ rat—one that’s been that way for a while. There are empty grey pits where its eyes should be, and frost clings to what’s left of its fur.

“Sitheach,” Moira says in a velvety, venomous whisper, eyeing Rapunzel with her lip curling and loathing as cold as the rat’s corpse in her eyes, “found _dear_ Uncle Abraham.”

She drops the rat. It skids on the glaze of frozen slush coating the cobblestones and sits up on its rotten haunches, lashing the long thin whip of its tail.

Moira clicks her tongue as the rat skitters away. She stalks after it, coat flapping behind her.

“Let’s go.”

## ❦

Kiera puts her chin in her hands, examining Catalina in silence. Even in the dim candlelight, Kiera can see the haze of tears misting her eyes. She’s crouched, folded up into the narrow space of their little nest in the jailhouse attic, and gnawing her lower lip like she’s trying to chew it off. She hasn’t spoken yet, but Kiera can _feel_ it coming.

“I can’t believe she’s _leaving,_ ” Catalina whispers.

_There we go._

“Calm down,” Kiera says, striving to sound nonchalant. She’d kept them busy after Stalyan left the jailhouse this afternoon: delivering lunches, bothering the guards, and then venturing out as the sun set to pick pockets on the busy streets during the evening rush. She had sort of hoped it would take Catalina’s mind off… things.

Apparently not.

“Grown ups _always_ leave,” she adds. “We’ve always been okay, haven’t we? It’s you and me—”

“But without her—”

“It’ll be _fine._ ” Kiera scoots closer—edging carefully around the little nub of their candle—to squeeze in next to her. “What are you worried about, huh? Is it what Flynn Rider said?”

The mocking sing-song she uses for Rider’s name doesn’t seem to help. Catalina pulls her knees up to her chin. “The Baron’s going to be angry,” she says softly.

“Not at _us._ We haven’t done anything wrong.”

Still, the back of her neck prickles. Catalina does have a point.

Picking pockets in Vardaros—and getting tips on what _not_ to do from the low-lifes who end up in the jailhouse—has made for a _much_ better year than the last few since they ran away, when they were mostly always hungry and tired and pickings along the roads to the west were slim. But Kiera isn’t stupid, either. The Baron has a temper even nastier than the matron of the orphanage in Pen-ar-Ferr, and Stalyan is the only person she knows who can _kind of_ calm him down.

Besides, it’s really _Stalyan_ they work for. It had been _Stalyan_ who caught Kiera with her hand in Stalyan’s purse almost a year ago—Stalyan who’d laughed instead of smacking her and said _nice try, pipsqueak_ —and Stalyan who’d taken them under her wing. She isn’t a… _nice_ lady, but she looks out for them as much as grown-ups ever do and she’s a _lot_ better than the Baron.

If she leaves… things get scary.

But Kiera’s prepared for it. They have enough money saved up to catch the ferry across the lake to Garioch, and then… they can go _anywhere._ It _will_ be fine.

“Maybe we could find this Caine person?” Catalina murmurs, startling Kiera out of her thoughts.

“…Why would we do _that?_ ”

“Well if– if Stalyan’s leaving with her, then… maybe… _we_ could, too.” She bites down even harder on her lip, until a droplet of blood wells between her teeth. Kiera elbows her.

“Hey. Stop that.”

“I’m _worried._ ”

Kiera grabs her hand, feeling a fierce rush of protectiveness. No matter how worried she is, Catalina is counting on her—she has to be strong. “We can’t rely on grown-ups,” she reminds her gently. “We’ve gotta take care of ours—”

“I don’t _want_ to run away again, Kiera! I- I like it here, I _like_ h-having someone who looks after us. I–” Sniffling, Catalina huddles against her. “I don’t want her to go,” she whispers.

“I… don’t either, Catalina, but there’s nothing we can…”

Do.

_Wait a minute._

Maybe there _is,_ though. Her heart thumps as she sits bolt upright. The candle-flame dances wildly.

“…Kiera?”

“I have an idea. It’s…”

Not one Catalina will like _one bit._ But as Kiera rolls it over in her mind, studying its elegant facets and hopeful edges, she nods to herself. It’s perfect. Sort of _mean,_ but that’s alright. They have to do what’s best for _them,_ not anyone else.

“Kiera!”

“We can tell the Baron,” she says. Catalina blanches, just like Kiera _knew_ she would, but Kiera heads off an interruption by clinging harder to her hand and rushing out the rest. “Stalyan isn’t just leaving, she’s _running away_ —he doesn’t want her to go!—so he can stop her, and then she’ll still be here, and we won’t have to—”

“She’ll be so _mad,_ ” Catalina breathes, clamping her fingers over her mouth. “Oh, _no,_ Kiera we can’t—”

“Who cares if she’s mad! Catalina, it’s _our_ best chance.”

“But what if she hates us and throws us out and never wants to see us again?! Or what if—” The last bit of color in her face drains away. “Kiera, what if he _hurts_ her?”

“He’s her _Dad._ ” Kiera rolls her eyes. “She’s like his favorite person. He wouldn’t do anything _bad_ to her… he’ll just stop her from leaving.”

“I don’t—Kiera, _no._ I don’t want to—”

“Well _I’m_ going to!”

“ _Don’t—!_ ”

Catalina lunges after her, and they both tumble down. Kiera yelps—her shoulder lands on the candle-stub with a greasy _squish_ —and the flame snuffs out beneath her. Darkness roars up around them. The heat of melted wax seeps through her sleeve, and Catalina gasps.

Silence.

_One. Two. Three. Four—_

“Are you okay?!”

“I’m _fine,_ ” Kiera says, shoving at her. “G’off me, ya lump. Whaddaya have in your pockets, _rocks?_ ”

This earns her a weak giggle as Catalina rolls off of her, and they sit up together in the cramped gloom. Kiera swipes at the wax congealing on her sleeve, squinting. She can _just_ make out Catalina’s face by the light leaking through the cracks in the trapdoor leading down to the jailhouse proper.

“Sorry,” Catalina mumbles.

“’S okay. But,” Kiera says, “we’ve gotta tell him. I bet he’ll be grateful. Bet he’ll give us a nice _big_ reward, and then– then we can get a bigger place, huh? A _real_ place. Not this dump.”

“But I like it _here_.”

“ _Trust_ me, Catalina. It’ll be good. You’ll see.”

The shadows shift as Catalina wraps her arms around herself, trembling with worry. Scaredy-cat. Kiera gazes serenely at her, waiting for her to come around. She always does.

“…O-okay,” Catalina whispers, finally. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

## ❦

Grim silence follows them out of Bren Erca, and they follow the rat.

Even for Vardaros, they must make a strange procession. Moira moves like she’s trying to split the city open, and the evening crowds evaporate before her. The crew and Pocket’s friends stream behind her in a long train of hardened faces and bristling steel.

 _Nails,_ Cassandra thinks as they cut across a barren park. Rapunzel wobbles, stumbling over the uneven furrows of snow, and Cassandra grips her waist tighter. _And whiskey, oil, tar._

She recognizes those ingredients.

Dump half the whiskey and replace with a mixture of equal parts oil and tar—toss in some nails—stuff a rag down the bottleneck and light it on fire…

 _What are those_ for, _Moira?_

Not the docks. Not the _Zampermin._ There’d been a spate of Separatist fire-bombings about a year after Rapunzel was kidnapped, and the stories Cassandra’s heard of the carnage are still etched deep in her memory. Moira wouldn’t endanger her ship like that.

_The constabulary, or wherever they’re keeping Eugene and Lance. Or she’s out for vengeance, maybe. The Baron’s manor? Or… maybe it’s about spreading the destruction out. Scattered explosions, to draw the watchmen away like the Separatists did when they tried to take Charcāthēn in fifty-nine…_

An insidious whirl of possibilities chases her through the dawning glow of the street-lamps as the evening crowds thin and the buildings become finer. Moira doesn’t seem… altogether _stable_ at the moment, and the violent scenarios crowding into Cassandra’s imagination all have a pall of nauseating plausibility.

She tries not to think too hard about it.

Eventually, the rat whips around the grand facade of an enormous inn called _Be Pavo La Griñe_ , leading them into the narrow alleyway between it and its elegant neighbor, and the anxious muddle of Cassandra’s thoughts stutters and goes silent.

The air tastes like ash. Prickly, and dry.

Sitheach kneels in the darkness with their fingers splayed over the ice. Crimson splotches stain their sleeves, which glisten in the diffuse glare of the street lamps. The rat bounds toward them, and they turn their hand to scoop it up—

Every drop of moisture in the air _vanishes_. Cassandra chokes—her breath a harsh, withered rattle in her chest—spots of blackness burst in her eyes and her mouth fills up with rust.

—and the rat crumbles into fine grey dirt.

Cassandra slumps, coughing, as the clawing, desiccated sensation eases. A bloody taste lingers on her tongue. When she looks up, Sitheach is watching her with a faintly amused smile, sifting grave-dirt through their fingers.

“The Duke,” they murmur in Saporian as they rise to their feet, “has the third-floor suite in _La Griñe._ I counted a security detail of four. One of them is afraid of rats.”

“Good.” Scoffing, Moira swivels on her heel, lips tight. “Varian, Cassandra, you’re with me. Bring the Princess. Sitheach… and Quaid, too, if you please. Pocket—” She draws her coin purse out of her coat and tosses it to him; he catches it deftly. “—arrange us lodgings for the night. We’ll catch up in, oh, an hour or two. Heads down, everybody, and stay sharp.”

## ❦

Be Pavo La Griñe wouldn’t have looked out of place in Herzingen. The spacious, paneled interior is warmed by roaring fires in a pair of massive stone hearths set at either end of the room. Polished tables fill the space in tidy lines, and a low buzz of pleasant, well-fed conversation competes with the cheery crackle of flames.

“Upstairs,” Sitheach mutters as they enter. “Quickly.”

They stick out like an angry welt among the coiffed and finely-dressed patronage. Even with Sitheach’s cloak folded over their arms to conceal the bloodstains, curious glances follow them across the room. Cassandra shudders, trying to school her features into cool disinterest. _Of course we belong. We’re just… paying a visit to the Duke._

_Nothing to see here._

Up the stairs, where there are fewer people to stare. Down the long, well-lit corridor of the third floor, all the way to the end of the hall. Moira snares Cassandra by the elbow and tugs her along as she steps up to the door, which she raps smartly.

“Who is it?”

“Room service,” Moira says tonelessly.

The door cracks inward. “His Grace didn’t order— _ack!_ ”

The young man yelps as Moira throws her weight against the door. He goes sprawling, and the door bangs open.

“ _Idiot,_ ” she mutters as she strides inside, slipping easily into the fake, snobbish accent she’d used while pretending to be Rosalia Morcant. “Oh, Your _Gra-ace!_ We have a gift for you…!”

Cassandra lurches after her, biting down on a curse—the rest of Abraham’s guards draw their blades with a dangerous _swish,_ rapidly recovering their surprise—

“Stop!”

“— _You!_ What in the blazes—”

“We have the Princess!” Cassandra shouts, desperate. Every pair of eyes in the room save Moira’s swings toward her, and the scramble freezes. She sucks in a breath, dizzied by the sudden scrutiny. “Rapunzel, we’ve– we’ve got her.”

Rapunzel’s almost asleep on her feet, but she lifts her head muzzily at the sound of her name, and for an instant everything goes still. Candlelight glints off three naked blades, all leveled at Moira’s chest. Abraham—halfway out of his seat by the fire—goggles at Rapunzel, shock and relief and horror all crashing together on his face.

“ _Mir brelce,_ ” Abraham breathes. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Oh, _calm_ down,” Moira says archly. She slouches back on her heels with a nasty smile. “Swords down, boys. We’re only here for a chat.”

The guards glance at Abraham, who nods. “Stand down. What do you want, Lady Caine?” His lips twist in a grimace. “My support for Eldoran neutrality in exchange for my niece?”

She tuts _._ “No, no, we’re well past _that._ Oh—and let me be clear: She isn’t our hostage, Your Grace. Sit down. We’ve got a lot to cover.”


	7. Chapter 7: The City Enraged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Violence, Mild Body Horror, Spiders.

###  **Chapter 7: The City Enraged**

Her footsteps echo ponderously in the dark under the earth. Cassandra traces the bas-reliefs skittering along the jade walls as she walks: fractal patterns, branching and frayed like lightning. Luminous worms nestle in the crevices, lending a faint patina of eerie green to the shadows.

Water splashes underfoot. A hollow sound.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Heavy with brine, the stagnant air salts her lips and plasters her curls to her forehead. Panting, Cassandra follows the downward slope of the tunnel—wading now—the water cresting her knees with a jaundiced hint of foam.

 _Drip_ —

The bottom vanishes. She pitches forward with a cry, and seawater sloshes her front as Cassandra flounders in the churning currents. Above her head, the ancient stonework groans. Water hemorrhages through the cracks. Her breath, brackish, suppurates in her lungs—she coughs—

_(…the only way out is…)_

Cassandra sucks in one last gasp of air and dives.

Down.

_Down._

Slick fingers of kelp enfold her wrists and welcome her down, through the shattered masonry of this drowned labyrinth and into the crush of open water— _down,_ until her palms press into the soft muck of the sea floor and silt blooms around her.

Something hard, beneath. She breathes out steady streams of bubbles and scrapes her fingers through the mud.

_Dig._

Cassandra digs. Sediment purls up around her in murky ribbons, and grit lodges under her fingernails as she excavates the… upturned face under the silt.

Wooden.

The buried figurehead of some benighted wreck.

… _Her_ face, she realizes, with a disquieted shiver. Wormy and cracked; lacquered with an iridescent sheen.

She shrinks away from it, perturbed. Unease erupts from her mouth in glistening columns. The wooden-her smiles—a gentle smile, carved over fathoms of a dread unleashed and boring inside; a ravenous _fear_ —and through the water ripples a frothing, velvety whisper.

_“…Cas s an dr a…”_

“n– _No!_ ”

The twisted blankets wrench her back onto the mattress. Cassandra gasps, guzzling dusty air—dry air— Cold sweat soaks her shirt, and the sheets—

Shuddering, she forces herself to relax. Her throat burns as she rolls her head back against the pillow, like she really _had_ been at the bottom of the ocean; the stabbing pulse of her heart sputters and quiets, in fits and starts. An ebbing tide. It leaves an unpleasant lump in the pit of her stomach: like sand-fleas wriggling in the grit.

 _Glimpses. Phantasms._ There’s a salty taste on her lips, probably from sweat. _Dreams._

Nothing else.

Cassandra sits up, trembling. Rapunzel’s slow, even breaths stir the air inside their room, and outside, the muffled clatter of a cart passes by, accompanied by a stinging reek that identifies it as one of the night-soil men. She wrinkles her nose.

_What time is it?_

Late. It had been past ten when they finished trading explanations and hammering out the details of their plans with Abraham and then left La Griñe for the far more modest Qiniche: a large inn holding vigil over the corner where Sental Street meets the grand canal. Rapunzel had gone straight to sleep, and Cassandra lay awake for a long time next to her, listening to her breathing and to the low murmurs coming from the little antechamber connecting all their rooms together. The stink of tar and paraffin oil seeped under the door and wound a sharp ache into her skull.

“Trust the Duke to keep his word?” Moira had asked, not long before exhaustion dragged Cassandra through the pain and into sleep: the words billow like fog in her memory.

“Maybe,” Quaid had replied, low. “Much as any of those bigwigs mean what they say. …Fires might put him off…”

Her eyes had sunk closed, then, and she drifted into a half-sleeping muddle of bargains struck and questions asked: the pressure points of a plundered city.

Barricades, and bombs. Boats.

Then the black waves of her nightmares, lapping at the flames.

She rubs her eyes, which feel gritty from not enough sleep. Rapunzel snorts quietly beside her, then sighs and settles into the steady rhythm of her slumber again, and Cassandra lifts the blankets. The cheap mattress rustles as she slips out of bed. A cold draft chills her sweat-damped skin, and her arms bristle into gooseflesh.

Cassandra pauses over the little washbasin in the corner, eyeing the door to the antechamber. Orange light seeps around the jamb, though the burble of conversation has guttered into silence and the acrid smell of the cocktails has softened to a dull note of sourness in the air. Chewing her lip, she splashes lukewarm water onto her face, then pads across the room to crack open the door.

Threadbare rug. Empty chairs. Discarded strips of linen littering the floor. Closed doors leading to the other rooms, where the crew lays sleeping. The lantern burns on its hook by the door out to the hallway.

Standing opposite it, gazing out the narrow window of the antechamber, is Moira, stiff and motionless. Fully dressed. Her fingertips pressed chalk-white against the sill.

“…Moira?”

Nothing. Cassandra eases through the doorway, tilting her head to examine the reflection of Moira’s face in the window. It’s a mask of tension; a nerve pulses in her jaw.

“Have you slept… at all?” she asks, hesitant.

Moira grunts: a small disdainful noise, which Cassandra takes to mean _no._ Frowning, she tip-toes to one of the spindly chairs arranged along the perimeter of the room. Sits. Traces the rigid lines of Moira’s shoulders with her gaze.

It’s easy to comfort Rapunzel. The Princess is a complicated person, and her thoughts contort sometimes into dizzying knots, but a hug accompanied by kind words and a gentle smile is enough to smooth the corners off her jagged feelings. She’s _cuddly._

But for Moira—who seems composed of nothing _but_ hard edges; a woman of broken glass and polished steel and bladed little smiles—Cassandra’s at a loss. When Cassandra is upset, her voice goes soft and her hands press in, but there’s a delicacy to that dance that Cassandra could never imitate; and Moira had hugged her mother, but that was her _mother,_ and the lines are surely different.

And talk’s cheap.

She digs her fingertips into the underside of the seat, feeling inadequate. _Useless._

“We’ll get her back,” Cassandra says, strained. “The _Zampermin._ I–”

Moira’s shoulders hike up to her ears, and Cassandra withers, shutting her mouth. A nauseous feeling roils her stomach.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

“She saved my life,” Moira says in Saporian, quietly, “the _Zampermin._ If I hadn’t found her I probably would’ve signed up with the Separatists and gotten myself killed when I came of age. But I saw her in the harbor one day and I– I… just _knew._ ”

Nails scraping over the window sill, she lets out a shaky breath.

“Old Yanev never treated her right,” she murmurs. “She was falling apart back then, all tarnished—and the magic had all gone dormant—I… don’t think he knew exactly what she _was._ He wasn’t Saporian.” A sneer tints her pallid voice, but half-heartedly; habitual. “But I did. I hadn’t thought there were any like her _left_ but th- the _minute_ I saw her, I—”

Her voice cracks.

“Cornaīn came to Alcorsīa a few months later, and when I told her she—sh-she was—she really… she _believed,_ you know? She kept the faith like it _mattered_ —” Bitterness shreds the word, and Moira shuts her eyes, quivering, as she lowers her head to lean her brow against the glass. Softly, hollowly, she says, “She wanted to help. I got her hired on, and a couple months after that we mutinied. Tossed Yanev and took over. Fixed her up—together—I d– I don’t think I could’ve done any of it without Cornaīn. Took more than a year to get her flying again, but the day the magic _woke up_ —”

As she frays into a ragged gasp, Cassandra slides out of her chair and drifts to her side, drawn there by the undertow of an instinct deeper than the chattering rapids of her thoughts; her hands find Moira’s arms, her shoulders—Moira makes a splintering sound and spins—

Cassandra grunts, swaying as she catches her.

There’s a ferocity to the embrace—a tearing despair in the way Moira grips the back of her shirt and quakes in her arms, in the bristling tar-oil-whiskey smell clinging to Moira’s hair, which jabs into her sinuses like a needle as Cassandra hunkers down with her.

“I can’t—” A shrill whisper. “I _can’t_ lose anyone else, Cassandra.”

“You won’t.” Where the promise comes from, Cassandra isn’t sure; but it comes out quiet and steady and solid as stone as sympathy wrenches her heart low; she threads her fingers through Moira’s hair, murmuring against it. “You won’t, you won’t. I swear you won’t.”

## ❦

“Think she’ll come?”

Lance bites back a sigh without opening his eyes. He can hear Eugene fidgeting. The rapid patter of his boot tapping the grate, and the rustle of fabric as he adjusts his position on the cot. Over. And over. And _over._

“I don’t know, man,” Lance intones.

It’s late, and between the steady burn in his side and the sticky fatigue pulsating behind his eyes he’d love it if Eugene could just _shut up for a few minutes—_ but he gets it. Anxiety bubbles in his stomach, too. Waiting and not _knowing_ and nothing to do but sit in the dark, unable to sleep.

“Maybe,” he adds.

“Gotta be past midnight by now,” Eugene says. _Tap-tap-tap,_ goes his foot. _Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap._ “Patrol every fifteen minutes, guards’ve come through forty-seven times—”

“Can you not–”

“—that’s eleven and three quarters of an hour since lunch…” Groaning, Eugene subsides into half-audible mumbles as he tries to work out how long it had taken Anthony’s men to cart them from the Baron’s manor to the jailhouse so he can better estimate when _lunch_ was, and Lance lifts his hands to his temples.

_Fires above._

“Give it a _rest,_ Eugene. She’ll come or she won’t—”

“Tsk- _tsk,_ Strongbow.” Stalyan’s quiet drawl glides out of the darkness an instant before she materializes in front of their cell: clad head-to-toe in dark greys and midnight greens that melt her into the shadows. As Lance’s heart soars, she slides a key into the lock and turns it with a rusted _click._ “I ever let you down before?”

“Stalyan!” Eugene cries, bolting to his feet. “You c–”

“ _Quiet._ You wanna get us caught?” The cell door creaks gently open, and a glare bleeds into her tone as Stalyan beckons them into the corridor. “I’m not here for _you,_ ” she says. “Now I– I couldn’t find Caine, but…” Her gloved fingertips come down, feather-light, on Lance’s shoulder. “ _One_ of you always had my back. So.”

_Huh._

Out of all the ways he’d thought this might end— _that_ sure wasn’t one of them. Yeah, he and Stalyan looked out for each other when they were younger… but he’d left Vardaros too. Left her behind in this mess same as Eugene had.

“Well, thanks,” he says. “I’m touched.”

Stalyan waves this away like she’s swatting a fly. “I have horses lined—”

_CLANG._

They all jump. Lamplight blazes into the corridor, spilled from the violent opening of the jailhouse door. Lance turns to see, with underwater slowness, slapped upside the head by a wave of sick fear. _Hasn’t been long enough for the night-guard._

“Stalyan,” says Marcus in his poisoned-velvet murmur, before Lance can really grasp the horror he’s seeing. “So… it’s true.”

_No. Shit!_

The Baron himself fills the doorway, holding a massive lantern aloft; a boulder in the stream of guards parting around him. Fear smothers him in a haze as the guards grab them one by one. Jostling. His ribs shriek. Mail jingles in the blinding light.

“You little _brats_ — _!_ ” Stalyan hisses, and that’s when Lance sees _them_ peeking out from behind Marcus’s knee and his heart crumbles up into dest right there in his chest. Red. Nonya. They must’ve eavesdropped—and then snitched. For reward, or for fear of punishment, or—

 _Oh, kids._ A fresh layer of terror wraps over the rest: for them, for what they’re going to see tonight, for the harsh consequences of what must have been an innocent decision. Of course Marcus would expose them to the daggers of his wrath. Of course just thanking them and leaving them out of it wouldn’t be enough for him.

Nonya’s face twists in alarm. Red trembles like a leaf.

_No._

“Don’t blame them, Stalyan,” Marcus says, chiding. He steps down the corridor slow, like a thunderstorm rolling in off the lake. Rage cuts him into hard facets; a diamond fury. “They did the right thing—made necessary by _your_ choices.”

“Dad—”

“ _Shh._ ” Marcus hangs his lantern on the hook beside their cell, watching his daughter thrash against the grip the guards have on her elbows with awful serenity. “I tried to do this the… gentle way. The polite way. I hoped young Rider would make the right decision… and now—” He sighs. “—I find my own daughter has betrayed me.”

“Look– _Marcus,_ the only one here who wants us to get married is you—can’t you let this one go?”

Frowning, Marcus turns to Lance. His mouth goes dry as he cowers before the Baron, shaking so hard that if it weren’t for the hands locked around his arms he’d probably be a quivering heap on the floor.

“Seems both of you need to learn,” Marcus says, “that I am not a man to be crossed. You, Rider, tried to make a fool of me after corrupting my daughter—” This elicits a splutter of outrage from Stalyan, which he ignores. “But make no mistake. You _will_ get married. This childish rebellion of yours ends right now.”

He folds his hands in front of his chest, tracing one finger along the seam in the garish red stone of his execution ring, and Lance bites his lip to suppress a gibber. _Not that not that anything but—no, no, no, no—!_

_Click._

Lance squeals, jerking backward as the spider lands on his face—Eugene and Stalyan shout through a great crackling distance, and he clamps his eyes shut, screwing himself into _absolute_ stillness— _don’t move, don’t breathe_ —eight little legs like pins crawling down his face—

_Don’t move. Don’t—_

“—not just any spider,” Marcus murmurs, in a tone of mild academic interest. “The Moranaen kai spider. Some say they were bred by the demon Ikhydre to execute apostates and heretics. They are…” He sighs. “Very deadly.”

His guards release him, backing away, and Lance whimpers. He sinks onto his knees, battling the urge to shriek and slap at the spider as it creeps over his jaw and down his neck.

_Kai spider. Venomous. Aggressive. Deadly._

_Don’t touch it. Don’t move._

_If you scare it you’re dead._

“At first, its venom causes swelling and numbness in the skin around the bite. Then, within the hour, the discoloration begins. The victim becomes feverish and begins to suffer delirium. Meanwhile, the inflammation spreads, as does the numbness. Breathing becomes difficult as the throat swells shut and the venom begins to paralyze the muscles of the chest. Death is a race between asphyxiation and paralysis of the heart.”

The spider slips beneath his shirt collar. He wheezes—tears leak from the corners of his eyes and carve scalding lines down his face, and Lance tries to focus on _that,_ focus on the throbbing of his injured ribs or on the hardness of the floor under his knees or _anything_ but the tiny executioner skittering under his shirt—

Over his shoulder. Down his arm. His pulse surges with a wild mixture of terror and hope—if he can just hold still long enough for it to reach his fingertips without biting him, then maybe it’ll fall off and escape—

“There is,” Marcus says with relish, “no known antivenin. With swift intervention to stabilize the vital organs, people have been known to survive the kai spider’s bite… but most who are bitten die. Some in as little as half an hour. For others, it takes as many as six.”

It’s past his elbow. Crawling toward his wrist. Lance trembles, hardly daring to breathe—

Marcus slams a foot into his gut and Lance shrieks as pain rips through his chest, shattering his hard-fought stillness—his back hits the jailhouse floor amid a cacophony of voices and—

He almost doesn’t feel it when the spider bites. It’s a tiny pinch—a pinprick against the searing pain raking over his ribs—but it punctures what’s left of his self-control.

Screaming, Lance smashes his other hand over the spot too, too _late_ —screaming through the sickening feeling of the spider’s carapace buckling under his palm—screaming through the terrified cries of the girls and Eugene bellowing his name and the cracked hysteria of Stalyan’s voice—he _screams._

And Marcus laughs. Softly. With the same prickly heat of the venom in Lance’s arm.

“Lock them up,” he says. “Shame about what… _nasty_ critters find their way into a cell, isn’t it? But I think this has been an instructive evening for us all.”

Lance goes limp as the guards haul him back into the cell. Cold shock sweeps through him like a gale, numbing the pain and fracturing his vision. Eugene, stumbling. Stalyan wrenching herself free as the guards shove her into the cell, too. Thunder when the door slams shut. Red staring at him with both hands clamped over her mouth in horror. Nonya ashen beside her, knees buckling as the Baron puts a hand on her head and ruffles her hair.

“He’ll be gone by morning,” Marcus says pensively. “Then, daughter, we can… revisit the discussion of your future.”

“You _bastard_ —”

Eugene throws himself against the bars, but the Baron only smiles. Cold. Malicious. It lingers for a moment before he turns away, signaling for the guards to follow.

“Sleep well, Rider. Stalyan.”

He takes the lantern with him, and when the jailhouse door booms shut, they’re all plunged into darkness again. Eugene swears through his teeth and drops to his knees beside Lance, muttering, “No, no, _no_ —Lance, buddy—”

Fingers on his arm, prying his hand away, undoing the buttons of his sleeve. Swiping the crushed spider away. Probing at the bite.

“You _little_ —”

“Stalyan. Don’t.”

“We’re s– we’re _sorry_ we didn’t mean t–”

Eugene slips away from him, tucking an arm around Stalyan’s shoulders to pull her away from the bars; she chokes down a sob and huddles against him.

“We’ll fix this,” he says. “S- somehow—look, girls, you know the city pretty well, right?”

“Y- yeah,” Nonya whispers.

“I need you t–to look everywhere you can for Princess Rapunzel, alright? She’s young, blonde hair about to her shoulders, green eyes—pink coat with white flowers. Bandages all up both hands. Okay? Tell her what happened and that Lance is in trouble. Can you do that for me?”

Nonya sniffles. “I– yeah. I’m s-sorry.”

“What did you _think_ would happen, you—”

“ _Stalyan._ ” Eugene takes a shuddery breath and tugs her down with him as he crouches. His hand finds Lance’s in the dark. A crushing squeeze. “It’s okay. You can’t take back what you did. But you can help us make it better, alright?”

“A- alright. We’ll– we’ll find her, I promise.”

“Good. Go.”

“Even if they find her, there’s no—”

“You don’t know Rapunzel like I do,” Eugene says, voice low. “C’mon, Lance, let’s get you sitting up. That’s it. We’ll get you out of this.”

_There’s no antidote._

Gasping, Lance allows himself to be guided up and then propped against the rough stone wall. The bite itches and tingles. Hands on his shoulders. Stalyan’s rasping, frightened breathing.

“Somehow,” Eugene says, hollowed out and trembling with uncertainty. “I- I promise, Lance, we’ll fix this. Just… just _hold on._ ”

## ❦

They are gathering outside Qiniche when Adira arrives.

In the greasy amber glare of the street-lamps, she looks ghastly but unchanged since Janus Point: still in her grey lamellar, with the black longsword strapped to her shoulder and her pale hair braided and coiled tidily around her head.

“You made it!” Varian breathes, faint with relief; Adira smiles, and as Ruddiger bounds forward to greet her with a happy chitter, she crouches down to stroke the raccoon behind the ears.

“I’d suspected you might run into trouble in Vardaros,” she says, a touch wry. “And, as usual—”

“—you were right,” Varian says.

They exchange grins; his sheepish, and hers amused.

“Another situation from which I must rescue you,” she says fondly, before she lifts her gaze to Moira and her expression cools into steady determination. As the lamplight strips the shadows from her eyes, Cassandra gets her first clear glimpse of her face.

Horror rakes through her. She gasps.

When they parted ways at Janus Point, Adira’s left eye—the eye Sugracha had spat into—was swollen to a mere slit, but she’d flushed the dark ichor out of it and it looked to be on the mend.

Now, though, it’s a flaky, crinkled mass with the texture of a wasp’s nest—the pupil distinguishable as a pinprick of deeper, liquid black puncturing the charcoal-grey pulp.

“Your _eye_ —”

“Is stable,” Adira says briskly, rising from her crouch. “Don’t worry about it, Short-Hair. What’s the plan?”

“…What did you call me?”

“Short-Hair.”

She says this like it’s the most normal thing in the world, blinking once at Cassandra with a vague curiosity—seeming puzzled by her surprise. Then, before Cassandra can work out how to respond to that, Adira says again, “The plan? Or… do you not have a plan?”

“You’re with Quaid,” Moira says, jutting her chin in his direction. “Hitting the jailhouse in the upper city while me and my crew take back the _Zampermin._ Varian here—” she claps his shoulder “—is taking the Princess and the animals across the lake. No arguments, kiddo. Once it’s done we’ll fly over the jailhouse on our way out, then head for Garioch to pick up the rest.”

“This assumes you’ll be successful.”

Moira offers her a hard smile. “I intend to be. But Cassandra knows the contingencies. She’ll be with you.”

Adira considers this for a moment, and then—seemingly satisfied that they aren’t _total_ incompetents—nods. “Then I’m ready. Good luck, Captain.”

“Mm. Move out.”

Moira stalks away, heading for Bren Erca, and the crew flows after her. Mael puts a comforting hand on Varian’s back as he calls for Ruddiger to follow him. Owl warbles on the kid’s fist, flapping his wings like he’s not sure about being carried off by a stranger like this. Rapunzel wobbles in place until Helcha sighs and cups her elbow, murmuring something gentle-sounding that Cassandra doesn’t quite catch; the Princess is still half-asleep, tottering, but after a few steps she leans into Helcha’s support, steadied.

Cassandra watches them depart until distance makes them small. Worry gnaws on her bones. They’ll get Rapunzel and Varian on the four o’clock ferry, and then…

Ten of them, against eighteen watchmen.

She shudders.

“Time to go,” Quaid says.

He leads them in the opposite direction, moving like a wolf on the prowl, with a hand on his sword. Paloma marches beside him, gripping a _maul_ of all things—and Talitha and Eran fall into step behind Cassandra. Both of them armed with crossbows and bandoliers of cocktails, which breathe their acrid stink into the frozen night.

Quaid fills Adira in on the details as they go. More Vardarans await them at the jailhouse, weapons and carts and torches at the ready. They’ll fire-bomb the square to draw out the guards and fill the air with smoke, allowing Cassandra, Adira, and himself to slip inside amid the chaos.

He’d been the sheriff, he’d explained in Be Pavo La Griñe, in the days before the Baron’s deep purse swallowed Vardaros whole. Then the city watch—always a little grubby with grift and greed—had collapsed into festering corruption, becoming little more than thuggish enforcers, and Quaid, unwilling to bend and impossible to bribe, had been corralled into retirement with little ceremony.

But he still knows the jailhouses.

Well enough to walk them in his sleep, he’d said.

While they descend into the bowels of the jail to search for Lance and Eugene, battle will rage on the streets outside. Fires will burn and blood will flow; if the Vardarans don’t fall to the watchmen’s swords, they’ll raise barricades around the jailhouse and drive the Baron’s lackeys _out._ A defiant stand—one Abraham promised to support in return for their help rescuing his future nephew-in-law.

 _My second insurrection._ Sardonic with a hysterical tinge, the thought whirls through her mind. _In as many months, too! Who knows, maybe we’ll overthrow the government of Quintonia next!_

Sun above, her life is in shambles.

They make it across the grand canal and the through the empty sprawl of streets between them and the jailhouse without incident. By the time the huge, ungainly building shakes itself out of the frigid darkness to loom above them, her nerves are piled up like kindling in her stomach, waiting for the spark. The night seems clear as glass, threaded with whispers of the lamplight gleaming on the ice-slicked street. Thorny shadows twitch in her periphery. Cassandra blinks them away, heart pounding.

To her eye, the big open space surrounding the jailhouse appears deserted. Quaid studies it, frowning.

“Hmmm.”

He whistles a quick, descending signal. The streets echo it back to him five or six times over, and a grim smile twists his mouth. “We’re ready,” he says. “Talitha.”

“Matches, Eran.”

“You,” Quaid murmurs, touching Cassandra’s wrist while the Hallorans ready their arsenal. The snick of a match. The starburst bloom of a tiny flame. “Stick close. You ever been in a real fight before?”

“Once.”

“Good.” Eran ignites the linen wick of Talitha’s first cocktail, and she steps back as she winds up her arm to throw it. Cassandra’s pulse _screams_ with a sharp mixture of fear and anticipation. “Second time’s always easier.”

The cocktail carves a blazing arc across the square, and Cassandra has just enough presence of mind to wrench her gaze away and throw up a hand to protect her face before it crashes through a window on the second floor of the jailhouse and—

There’s a crash, and then a deafening _BANG!_ as the cocktail explodes. Red light burns through her closed eyelids, and a solid _wall_ of foul-smelling heat batters into her.

“Again,” Quaid barks.

Shouts erupt from inside, and the second cocktail smashes against the jailhouse steps in the same instant the doors burst open.

Flames engulf the watchmen. Screams lacerate the night.

“Again!”

Glass shatters. Fire roars.

Watchmen scream.

Bloody light irradiates the square as flames lick the stone facade of the jailhouse, greedily devouring wooden trim and window-frames as they clamber toward the shingled roof. Quaid bellows, “MOVE! Crossbows on the second floor! Find cover! Smoke ’em out!”

Greasy smoke burns in her lungs, stinking of tar. She pelts after him—he cuts around the perimeter of the square as the volley continues, and watchmen pour out of the jailhouse like enraged bees rushing to defend their hive. The ground bucks, wracked by the onslaught—she feels a bolt of panic—

—and then something in her rocks back on its haunches and vaults over the fear as adrenaline slicks her down. Cassandra gasps.

_Saber in her left. Dagger in her right._

Quaid’s just ahead, skidding into the murky alley behind the jailhouse. Adira gallops beside her, steady as a warhorse. Her boots dig into the loose cobbles, and she keeps her footing.

A door at the back of the jailhouse flies open, and Quaid hauls back and slams the pommel of his longsword into the face of the guard who emerges before the other man can even register their presence; he crumples, and Quaid kicks him out of the way.

“In!”

Pandemonium inside.

Shouting ricochets down the corridor. More guards, armed and ready for them. The narrow hall makes for cramped fighting, but Cassandra’s used to the tight confines of the labyrinth. She shows them her teeth, and charges forward with Quaid.

_Parry! Cut-kick-MOVE! Slash—!_

A bolt whizzes past her cheek, and her blade glances off a spaulder to bite flesh instead—blood spurts from the young man’s throat and _stars oh stars don’t think about that—_

Adira plows through the next cluster of guards with a single powerful swipe of her longsword—she’s on top of the crossbowman at the end of the hallway before Cassandra’s adversary hits the ground—

And he drops, gurgling.

The crossbow _thunks_ into the wooden floor.

Quaid wrests a ring of keys from the belt of a dazed guard and lopes along the corridor. Panting, Cassandra follows him into the tight stairwell halfway down, Adira at her back. Two more watchmen boil up from the depths. Quaid disarms one, shoving him aside, and kicks the other in the chest—he topples backward onto the landing with a sickening _crunch,_ and doesn’t rise.

Iron taste. Dizzy. Cassandra rattles down the remaining steps in a churning haze, swiping blood out of her eyes— _when did that get there_ —

Cellblock at the bottom, not much different from the palace dungeons in Herzingen. Quaid already has two of the doors flung open, and he’s working on a third while the inmates cheer and babble in Eldoran.

“ _Ja, ja—_ Quaid! _Renten_ Quaid!”

“ _Larsado ña_ Quaid!”

Quaid bites out something in rapid Eldoran, probably an explanation. The third door slams open, to raucous applause; without looking, he tosses Cassandra a second ring of keys, which clatter onto the flagstones at her feet.

“More cells downstairs,” he rumbles. “Shouldn’t be any more guards. Get to it.”

She jams her dagger back into its sheath and scoops up the keys with trembling fingers. “Adira—”

“With you, Short-Hair.”

More stairs. Big wooden door at the bottom, and a vacant stool beneath a lantern that shines with an incongruously cheerful light. Grunting, Cassandra shoves the door open.

“Oh, what _now?_ ”

Her heart leaps. Who knew she’d ever feel _this_ happy to hear Eugene’s stupid voice?

“Fitzherbert!” she cries.

“…Is that– _Cass?_ What—”

Eugene presses his face against the bars of the third cell down, and Cassandra—half-laughing in relief—jangles the keys at him as she jogs down the corridor. “Came to rescue you. Lance in there with you?”

“He’s—yeah. He’s in bad shape, though, and—oh, um, _heh-heh._ Of course you’ve met Stalyan.”

She starts. She’d been so focused on testing keys agains the lock that she hadn’t even noticed the _third_ person in the cell with them.

 _Stalyan Esclavo_ in the cell with them.

Dressed like a thief with a rapier on her hip. Crouched next to Lance—

 _Lance._ The keys slip through her fingers, and Cassandra scrambles to catch them without taking her eyes off of Lance. His sleeve’s been cut away to expose an arm ballooned to twice its normal size and striated with patches of blotchy, blistering green.

_What in the world—_

“Kai spider bite,” Eugene says curtly. “No time to—Cass, he’s _dying,_ he needs—”

“—a doctor.” _Garioch. If he can hold out until we get to Garioch. Damn it!_ Cassandra jabs another key into the lock, another, another, another another _another,_ and shouts with triumph when the next one fits. “Got it. How long? Can he walk?”

“It’s been two hours,” Stalyan replies. “And… no.”

“I’ll carry him out,” Adira says, striding forward.

“…And now _Adira’s_ here!” Eugene splutters, raking his hands through his hair, as Cassandra drags the cell door open and he stumbles into the corridor. “Of course! Because why wouldn’t she be!”

“Take deep breaths, Fishskin. It’ll calm you.”

“…Ex-excuse me, _what_ did you call me!?”

Ignoring him, Adira sheathes her longsword and scoops Lance into her arms instead.

“Adira!” Lance burbles, blearily delighted. “ _Hi-i-i!_ ”

“We should make our way outside,” Adira says calmly. “Once Earrings—”

“—his name’s Lance—”

“—is settled a safe distance away, we can return to the battle, but protecting the injured is our first priority.”

Cassandra nods. “Go. We’ll follow. Is… Stalyan—?”

“I’m coming.”

“Okay.”

Cassandra fumbles the keys as they hurry out. Quaid expected them to free everyone on this level, but Adira’s right: they need to get Lance to safety.

But she can leave the keys.

A scarred hulk of a man sits in the cell nearest the door. His morose scowl softens into confusion when she tosses the keys through the bars.

“Quaid’s upstairs,” she says, hoping he speaks enough Coronan to follow along. “He’s leading a rebellion—let yourself and the others out for us, yeah?”

“Quaid?” His fits splits into a huge grin. He lumbers off the cot, and Cassandra stomps down on the little voice in the back of her mind that _shrieks_ at her for this. It sounds too much like the Commander. “ _Jalo, ña renten!_ ”

Grimacing, she hurtles up the stairs after Adira.

“Quaid?!” Eugene hisses at her. “Quaid like _Quaid the Blade?!_ You teamed up with _Captain Quaid_ to rescue us?!”

“Not important, Rider!” Stalyan growls.

Triumphant shouting breaks out below as the news of the jailbreak leaps from cell to cell, and they burst up into the simmering chaos of the first level. Smoke coats the air in an oily haze. Freed inmates scramble out of Adira’s path.

And they hurry up, up into the night.

## ❦

Outside, they find a nightmare burnt down to embers. The stench of blood and smoke hangs in the air like a pall. Bodies strew the cobblestones—some moving, others not—and haphazard bucket-lines heave armfuls of dirty slush onto the remaining fires. Vardarans swarm the square, maneuvering carts to block off the streets and dragging furniture out of the jailhouse to build barricades around them. Glass crunches underfoot as they emerge from the jailhouse.

Cassandra mops her curls out of her face, panting.

They’ve won.

Eugene gapes at the carnage. “What the–” Words seem to fail him momentarily; then he shakes his head, turning to Cassandra. “Is Rapunzel—?”

“She’s okay,” Cassandra says at once. He slumps, relaxing, and she hurries through a brief summary of everything that has happened since his arrest.

Halfway through her telling, Quaid strides out of the jailhouse with a chair, which he slams onto the cobbles with a loud _thud._ He jumps onto it as heads turn in his direction; the blade of his longsword gleams in the firelight.

Cassandra expects him to shout, but when he speaks, it’s low and rougher than ever from the smoke. “The jailhouse is ours tonight. Now we’ve gotta prepare to hold it longer than it’ll take for the Baron to stomp us into the ground and scrape us off o’ his boots.”

Crackling flames fill the silence. Quaid takes a deep breath.

“We’ve had enough hiding,” he continues. “Enough of watching the Baron steal Vardaros out from under us. Ain’t his city. It’s _ours._ And even if we fall in the end, tonight—” He raises his sword with a grim smile. “—we reminded him where the power in Vardaros truly lies. I want all of you to remember that. No matter what happens tomorrow.”

As the Vardarans stamp their feet, roaring approval, Eugene glances sideways at Cassandra and mutters, “So is this just, like, your _thing_ now?”

“Oh, can it, Fitzherbert.”

She sheathes her saber, turning south to search the dark sky for the luminous shimmer of the _Zampermin._ Quaid drags his chair over for Lance to sit in and exchanges a few quiet words with Adira after giving Stalyan a decidedly cool glance.

The battle-rush is fading fast, leaving Cassandra with a murky, hollowed-out feeling. Tarred with worry and feathered in fatigue. And budding guilt.

She’d killed a man tonight.

One a few years older than her, if that.

Bile rises in her throat. She hadn’t even _meant_ to, which somehow feels even worse. If the saber had slid in a different direction—if she hadn’t misjudged the angle of that final slash— _if, if_ —

_There!_

Relief sweeps through her in a sickening rush as her eyes catch a hazy glint of light in the distance: the _Zampermin_ soars off the lake like a star falling in reverse.

_They made it._

“They’re coming,” she declares, raising her voice. “Everyone! Clear the square! Anchor’s coming down in ten and trust me when I say you _don’t_ wanna be in the way when it does!”

Eugene groans. “And there I was hoping you’d ditched the pirates to come after us, Cass.”

“… _Wow._ ”

“What?” He steps back, crossing his arms with a defensive chuckle. “I mean, come _on,_ Cass, you’ve gotta admit—”

“You got her ship _impounded,_ ” she seethes. “You put all of us in danger—Lance is _still_ —and– and you can’t even pretend to be grateful when she comes to rescue you?!”

“…Hey now—”

“Nn– I don’t want to _hear it._ ” Snarling, Cassandra stalks away from him to help the Hallorans clear debris away for the anchor.

 _I get it’s an adjustment,_ she thinks furiously. _I get that she’s an asshole sometimes! But I’ve had it—I’ve_ had it! _—with him and Rapunzel acting like she’s some awful—they don’t wanna be on the ship?! Then they can leave!_

Paloma Lamech’s in the middle of everything, hauling bodies out of the square and directing the wounded into the jailhouse to get bandaged up, and she tosses Cassandra a cracked grin when their eyes meet.

_I’m done._

The thought streaks across her mind like lightning. Bright. Painful—and bracing. Cassandra breathes in smoke and glowers as she and Eran scour the ground for fallen weapons.

_I’m done trying to make this work for them. They can sit in the cargo hold by themselves all the way to Aphelion for all I care._

It felt like she’d finally gotten somewhere with Rapunzel yesterday afternoon, but Cassandra crushes that burgeoning hope down into a bitter ember. She’s _done_ getting her hopes up for nothing, too.

Maybe it makes her a bad friend.

But she can’t _do_ this anymore, and if Moira going out of her way to rescue Eugene from his own arrogant stupidity isn’t enough for them…

Tears prickle in the corners of her eyes. Cassandra swipes them away, sniffing hard, and glares into the night.

 _From the smoke._ Definitely. For sure.

On foot, it’d take well over an hour to get from central Vardaros to the docks; the _Zampermin_ makes that distance in a matter of minutes. By then the square has been cleared of bodies and large debris, and everyone scatters as the ship cuts a tight circle overhead.

From the ground, the anchor’s release sounds strange: a muffled, clattering _thwunk._

The force of its impact reverberates through the ground with enough force to knock Cassandra off her feet; she bounces against the jailhouse, grunting, as chunks of frozen earth and shattered cobblestones explode into the air around the anchor. More than a few people shout, alarmed. She grins.

A small fleck detaches from the hazy glow of the ship and zips downward along the anchor-chain.

Moira.

Her coat flags wildly with the speed of her descent. Every ripple and snap of the thick fabric traces pearly glimmers of light through the darkness: gossamer after-images like threads tethering the captain to her ship.

Cassandra darts forward before her feet even touch the ground. She doesn’t know what possesses her to do it—she isn’t even conscious of _deciding_ until after she’s already flung her arms around Moira’s waist.

Then her brain catches up to her body.

_What are you DOING—_

Moira squawks, and staggers, and then throws her arms around Cassandra’s shoulders with an equal enthusiasm. Her fingers press hard into Cassandra’s shoulder blades.

“Hey,” she murmurs, into Cassandra’s curls. “You alright?”

An embarrassing medley of emotions crashes through her: relief and guilt, joy and fear. Cassandra gulps for air and staggers away. “Yeah, I’m– I’m fine, Lance is hurt—”

“Dad,” Stalyan says icily, striding toward them, “dropped a kai spider down his shirt two and a half hours ago. We do _not_ have time for tearful reunions.”

Moira’s expression firms at once. She slings a second harness off her shoulder and hands it to Cassandra, grim, and says, “Get him over here. I’ll bring him up first—then Fitzherbert, then you, Cassandra—”

“I’m coming too,” Stalyan says flatly.

“Fine. Hurry. Adira?”

The older woman glances up at the ship, lips quirking. “I… have my own business to attend to,” she says, while Eugene and Stalyan haul Lance to his feet and half-lead, half-carry him to the anchor. “I’ll meet you at the Spire later, as we discussed.”

“Grand.”

Adira nods before she slips away, and Cassandra turns to Lance. Between herself, Stalyan, and Eugene, they’re able to get him into the harness without too much trouble, and as Cassandra tightens down the last buckle, she hears a child scream, “Wait!”

“ _You,_ ” Stalyan hisses.

“Girls—”

Two of them, Cassandra sees when she follows the line of Eugene’s gaze. Young—eight, maybe, grubby and thin.

“P-please,” pants the smaller of the two, “we looked– we looked all over but we couldn’t find her and th-then we saw the fires so we came back and _please d-don’t leave!_ ”

“You should’ve _thought_ of—”

“ _Stalyan,_ ” Eugene snarls.

“Let’m come.” Lance slurs out the words, panting with effort as he sways in his harness. “Th’ jus’ kids.”

He swings his head ponderously around to look at Moira, his eyes unfocused but plaintive, and she glances from him to the girls. Sighs.

“ _Fine_ ,” she says, gripping the back of his harness; she tugs on a third line, and the ropes securing the pair of them to the ship pull taut. As they’re hoisted into the air, she calls down, “Esclavo, then Fitzherbert—then Cassandra and I’ll take the kids up. _No arguments._ Not one more delay. That clear?”

“Crystal,” Cassandra says.

Then they wait in tense silence, broken by the noise of construction around the perimeter of the square and the girls’ sniffling. Eugene looks grim; Stalyan ready to stab something; but neither of them speak.

_One minute. Two. Three. Four…_

Ten minutes later, Moira comes down again with a pair of smaller harnesses for the girls, which Cassandra helps them into while Moira takes Stalyan, and then Eugene, up to the ship with her.

Neither seems inclined to speak, but she tries anyway.

“I’m Cassandra. You can call me Cass, if you want.”

Nothing. The shorter one shifts from foot to foot, examining her harness dubiously. The other meets Cassandra’s gaze with huge, worried eyes.

“…Can… you tell me your names?”

More silence.

The girl shakes her head, ducking so her long, light-red hair falls in front of her face.

“Okay,” Cassandra says. “That’s fine. You don’t have t—”

“Will Lance be okay?” she whispers.

Her friend doesn’t look up, but she goes still—listening, with an intensity Cassandra can _feel._

What is she supposed to say? Kai spiders are one of the exotic terrors she learned about in school: the deadly scourge of a distant land. She’d never expected to encounter one, or risk losing a friend to its fatal bite.

“I… don’t know,” she says, after a too, _too_ long pause. “What happened to him’s… bad, _really_ bad. I’m not gonna lie to you about that. But we are going to do _everything_ we can to save him, okay?”

This does not seem to help. At all. Cassandra takes a deep breath and extends her hands, palms out.

She waits.

The taller girl moves first—slowly and _carefully_ pressing her tiny fingers into Cassandra’s palm. Her friend copies her, looking ready to bolt if Cassandra makes any sudden movements. She quakes as Cassandra folds her own fingers over theirs.

“Look…” Cassandra murmurs, squeezing their hands. “I can’t promise it’ll be okay. But I _promise_ we’re gonna try as hard as we can.”

“You really promise?” the shorter one whispers.

“I really do.”

 _Garioch,_ she thinks, _had better have the best doctors in the whole damned world._


	8. Chapter 8: Ashes to Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey gang! Getting words down has been a struggle this month, and I'm working on moving to a new apartment next month, so while I anticipate the upcoming arc will be a bit easier, I’m also going to switch to updating once every other week through the end of February to give myself a little more time (and also build up more of a margin and also make room for Gen Week stuff). Come March we’ll go back to weekly updates.
> 
> I’m… I’m not sure how to even warnings this chapter. CW injuries, spider bite aftermath, blood, implied self-harm, and also… necromancy? ?? philosophical death? near death experiences??
> 
> CW the ship medic is in a chthonic cult and Lance is not having a _great_ time.

###  **Chapter 8: Ashes to Ashes**

Rapunzel sniffles. Tears drip slowly down her face.

_Eugene. Cassandra._

Her head hurts.

It’s chilly. Damp. They’re… somewhere, unfamiliar. A musty space crowded with filing cabinets. Cramped like the cargo hold, but bigger. Harsh lamplight glares through high windows, mingling with the shadows like water with oil.

_…Eugene…_

Her head hurts.

_…Cass._

Varian sits next to her on their bench. Owl perches on his fist, studying the cabinets with a malevolent yellow glower, and Ruddiger nestles in his lap, asleep.

It’s quiet.

Every few minutes, she nods off with her head drooping against the wall—then jolts awake again when fear snaps its teeth.

_Eugene isn’t here._

They’re lost.

_Cass left us._

“We’re in Garioch,” Varian says patiently, when she asks. She has the vague feeling he’s said this several times before, but her memories of the past few hours have the consistency of congealed jam, and the information feels new.

_Hurts to think._

“Where?”

“In Marne.”

She frowns. “We… were in Vardaros.”

“We took the ferry across the lake,” he says. “Lake Carca? Remember? We’re waiting. Everyone’s coming to get us after they rescue Lance and Eugene.”

_Remember? Yes._

…No.

It’s close—familiar—and Rapunzel bobs her head along in muzzy agreement, but the details trickle through her grasp like mist. Uncle Abraham had been there… hadn’t he?

And… she’d sat with Cass for a long time, cold but comforted.

Cass is not here now.

How had that happened?

Her head _hurts._

“Am I… dreaming?”

“You have a concussion. It’s messing with your head.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Yeah.” Varian blows his messy bangs out of his eyes, not looking at her. “Yeah, they’re… not fun. Try to relax, alright? You _really_ need to rest.”

Rest.

She _tries._ Pain plods over her skull, battering her thoughts beneath ponderous hooves. Pascal chirps quietly as he squeezes her neck with his sharp little claws. A tremor wracks her spine, and the shadows under her eyelids crisp, charring like leaves scorched by flame.

She’s so tired.

_Eugene._

It hurts so _much._

_Cass._

## ❦

“There is,” Sitheach sighs, kneeling, “a significant chance that you will die. Try not to worry.”

Strongbow makes noise of garbled unhappiness in response, which they take to mean that he _is_ worried, and will continue to worry, no matter their reassurances. He lies still nonetheless while Sitheach sinks back on their haunches to examine him.

Livid bruises mottle one side of his torso. They’d wager on re-broken ribs; unfortunate, but not a priority. His _other_ side…

Spiderweb veins crawl black under swollen skin. Pitted green tracks have crept up his arm and splatter his chest in irregular blotches, like mold, tinged at the edges with the first traces of gangrene, and his breath pools shallowly in his lungs.

_Kai venom. Hm._

“It is too late for medicinal remedies,” they add, “even if we had the means.”

They do not rush as they rise to their feet and cross the great cabin, though they’re certain Strongbow would appreciate any impression of urgency. Haste is for the living, and for their purposes tonight, neither they nor Strongbow qualify.

“We do, however, have… other methods at our disposal.”

Unorthodox, and experimental—but nevertheless.

The tools of their arts lay neatly upon the captain’s desk. Long dangles of engraved vertebrae and knucklebone. Their slim iron dagger. Vials of ash and barrow dust. Needle, thread, mortar, pestle. Sitheach had prepared it all while the crew arranged Strongbow on the great cabin’s floor, and now, they drum their fingers against the polished tabletop, contemplative.

“I imagine you will find this… _unpleasant._ Perhaps even moreso than the spider’s bite. It might, also, fail altogether.” They uncork a vial of ash and empty it into the mortar, tracing their thumb along the slight curve of the dagger’s blade. Blood wells out with a faint _hiss._ “I’ve enough confidence in the theory to try, but if I’m wrong you will die, in rather a lot of pain. You can imagine how little Cathay cares for the preservation of life.”

Three drops, into the ash. Mixed into rusted paste. They blink; magic chills the starlight to a ghastly whisper.

“ _But,_ ” they continue, turning from the window, “then again, life is a mere aberrant growth, a… fleeting illusion of separation from the dead. From a certain perspective, the living _are_ dead, animated by a temporary paroxysm of confusion. Do you understand?”

They kneel beside him again. Strongbow moans. “Y’ b-bedshide mannersh need… work.”

_Swollen tongue. Without intervention… another half hour, if that._

“I’ve heard,” they say.

“ _Nnn._ ”

“The point,” Sitheach continues, sharper, as they paint the first line of ash and blood down the middle of Strongbow’s torso, “is that, in theory, the only _functional_ difference between a fresh corpse and a body is that the latter still harbors a soul.”

Magic whispers between their ribs, scratchy and dry. The dusty taste of old granite fills their mouth, sticking between their teeth like grit; reluctant.

But it takes.

They trace Strongbow’s ribs with paste, and the bones twitch beneath their fingertips. His ribcage pumps like a bellows, pressing into slackening muscle, filling his lungs.

_Good._

“…Try to relax,” they murmur, scooping up another fingerful of paste.

Between the creeping paralysis of kai venom and the magic plucking at the puppet things of the dead and dying particles within his flesh, Strongbow does not have much choice in the matter. The interior of the great cabin washes to dusty grey and stark shadow; magic desiccates the air.

“Wh- _h—_ ”

“The living body,” Sitheach says, smearing notches of paste onto his throat in a rough imitation of vertebrae, “swarms with the detrius of its own death. With some small adaptions to account for your presence… _hm._ A wight, strictly speaking, need not begin as a corpse. Can you speak?”

No.

They can feel the sudden, panicked thrash of Strongbow’s mind as the balance tips and the magic settles, soothed by the ritual familiarity into ignoring the agitations of a living soul. His ribs expand and contract; the heart beats steady.

The ravages of Kai venom matter little to an animate corpse.

Whether it can be _undone_ remains to be seen, of course; even so, they cannot suppress a stir of satisfaction.

Reanimation on a technicality. Theoretical nonsense bordering on the heretical. They cannot _wait_ to see the aggrieved frown on Maeriedh’s face whenever they’ve the chance to tell her about it.

 _Later._ For now…

“ _Try_ to relax,” they say again, apologetic now. “This is a temporary measure. A precaution, to prevent… _tch._ _Chémean sā, salāmīm min sā._ Coronan is such a primitive language, isn’t it? You are dead— _chéma_ —and you _aren’t_ dead— _salāmó._ Death of the body, but not of the spirit. Hmm.”

They click their tongue thoughtfully, pressing a hand into Strongbow’s shoulder. A droplet of their own blood trickles from the split tip of their thumb and frays over his skin; power pricks like a needle under their tongue.

“…It is the difference between injury and amputation,” Sitheach says at length. “In _chéma,_ the spirit lingers in the damaged flesh; then _salāmó_ occurs when the spirit is cut loose from its vessel. You might translate it as the _irrevocable_ death. Renew the flesh, heal the body, but only the deepest and most brutal perversions of magic can chain the spirit to the corpse again. You see?”

Whether Strongbow can hear them now or not, they can’t tell, but the writhing of his soul has calmed to a mere quiver. Talking, at the least, hasn’t made it worse.

“This was all theoretical before tonight,” they add. “Have you ever heard the name Alizarin Marchach? She was an apostate of the Barrows who became one of the Lady’s scions, and she made some rather fascinating innovations with _zaténīdh_ before—ah, but I doubt the particulars of the literature interest you, do they? Suffice it to say that my arts expect but do not _require,_ or cause, _salāmó;_ meanwhile the sundrop acts upon _chéma_ alone. Thus, I’ve preserved you within its reach. When it heals you, the wight-bindings… should… fail. That is the theory, at least. In other hour we shall see whether it holds true.”

## ❦

Helcha has never quite seen the point of children. Their parents had borne eight more by the time she and Sobēl left home, and though she’d liked them all well enough—noisy little beasts though they were—she hadn’t _missed_ them very much. Not the way Sobēl did. She enjoyed the calm quiet of their absence, and the lack of _mess._

But she does believe in kindness, when she can afford it, and she’s always had an eye for things slipping through the cracks. That is why, when the _Zampermin_ slices into the lake and begins to tack south, her gaze is drawn to the children.

She frowns.

They’re huddled together beside the aftcastle steps. Not in anyone’s way, but unsupervised by anyone but the Princess’s empty-headed squeeze—and _he_ hovers nearby, all forlorn and lost without his mistress and moping at the great cabin door. Helcha wouldn’t trust him to look after a crate of rice, let alone a pair of _children._ Her lips purse.

Someone ought to do something.

Under normal circumstances, she would’ve left it to Mael, who _likes_ children. Or Cassandra, perhaps; Helcha heard she’d charmed Maríe’s little gang when she arrived in Alcorsīa, and that suggests a basic level of comfort with young children.

But Mael is up in the ratlines, checking the masts, and Cassandra looks half-dead from exhaustion and has blood on her face besides.

 _Someone_ will just have to be her, Helcha decides, sighing.

She endeavors to look harmless and matronly as she strolls across the deck, and _not_ like she’d lit a man’s blood on fire only an hour ago.

“Children,” she announces—to a pair of frightened, rabbity glances. Smiling doesn’t appear to put them at ease whatsoever; _Cralóshēm_ help her. “Come with me, please.”

“Hey, now, I don’t think—”

“ _That_ is clear,” Helcha says, sliding a flat, bland smile in Fitzherbert’s direction. Indignation rumples the hostility in his face; she elects to ignore him, and turns to the children again, beckoning this time. “Come.”

Whether it’s her imperious tone, or the smile, or just a matter of their being too exhausted by the late hour to argue, they obey, shuffling at her heels as she leads them over the deck and down into the cabin.

“…Why’s it such a _mess?_ ”

“Watchmen,” Helcha scoffs.

Clothes and bedding strew the narrow corridor between the bunks. The locker doors all hang open, some dangling askew from damaged hinges. Ceramic shards and puddles of red paint in front of _her_ bunk tell the tale of a careless tossing, and anger flares bright in her chest.

_How dare they._

“You two,” she says crisply, “gather all the blankets and pillows. Stack them next to the ladder—pillows on the left, blankets to the right. Mind you don’t track the paint more… _everywhere_ than it already is, mm?”

The smaller one wrinkles her nose. “Why should we? _We_ didn’t make the mess.”

“Because it would be kind and helpful of you.” They snicker behind her, and Helcha rolls her eyes as she plucks one of Tirian’s boots off the deck. _Children._ Really. “You’re thieves, aren’t you, girls? Do you know what I am?”

“Some kind of _nun?_ ” sneers the little one.

“The word is _charóthanē,_ ” Helcha says lightly, “but, no. I meant the other thing.”

The boot’s pair lies morosely in a splash of paint on the far end of the cabin; Helcha picks her way toward it, scooping up other items along the way. Sobēl’s notebook. One of Mael’s silken sleeping caps. Renard’s favorite pair of dice.

“… _What_ other thing?” the little one asks, with a newfound and palpable uncertainty.

“The _Zampermin_ is a pirate ship,” she says in her sternest tone. “A respectable one. You two have been invited aboard by the Captain herself; that makes you part of the crew. You _will_ pull your weight, or…”

Or nothing. Moira isn’t the kind of monster who would throw a child overboard, but that doesn’t matter. They’ll have heard enough tales of plank-walkings and keel-hauling to catch her drift. Helcha smiles over her shoulder, sly, and the little one narrows her eyes in a glower that might be impressive in another decade or two.

“You wouldn’t _really_ kick us off the ship,” she squeaks.

“ _I_ wouldn’t. I’m not the Captain.”

Her indifference to their fate seems to impress them as _kindness_ and _helpfulness_ could not, and they move to pluck at the blankets with the halting uncertainty of two children who’ve never done a chore before in their lives. Helcha smirks, turns away, and for a moment or two, she and they work in easy silence.

Then the little one asks, “If you’re a nun—”

“— _charóthanē_ —”

“—how come you’re a pirate?”

“Saporia is very different from Eldora,” Helcha says mildly, tucking Tirian’s boots into his locker.

“How come?”

“Well, _charóthanē_ —do you know any Saporian?”

“No.”

“Ah. It means _ever-burning._ I’m… hm. It is something akin to an arsonist, except—”

“What?”

“I start fires.”

“For– for _church?!_ ”

“Char Malách is the Lord of Infernos.” Primly, Helcha lifts her right hand and twiddles her fingers to make her gauntlet—an intricate construction of rings, delicate chains, and colorful beads of glass—glint in the lamplight. “And of inspiration. The line is very thin.”

Their attention locks onto the jewelry at once, though their interest fades once they notice the greenish patina staining her skin and realize she’s wearing copper, not gold or gems.

“What… for, though?” the little one asks, skeptical.

“Fire,” she says, “is beautiful, and dangerous, and wild. Even the smallest candle-flame, left unattended, can bring a city to its knees; yet even the most furious conflagration is as lovely as the candle. It’s splendid—and terrible. That’s the essence of it.”

The children trade glances, and silence descends again as they digest this information. For a few minutes, there’s no sound save the rustle of wool blankets and linen pillowcases. Helcha finishes her own tidying, then slips into the galley to dampen a rag.

When she returns, she finds the bedding all cleared away. The girls curl together in the pile of pillows, dozing.

She leaves them slumbering while she scrubs away the paint and re-makes the bunks. It’ll all need a more thorough washing come daylight, but for the night—it will serve.

Her own bunk is in shambles, and Helcha grits her teeth as she peers inside. Scraps of her painting litter the thin mattress, having been ripped from the veneer with—she imagines—the petty ire of a watchman denied the rich spoils he imagined a pirate ship _should_ have.

_Pity you can only kill someone once._

Helcha sighs. At least they hadn’t harmed the ship.

She gathers the shredded watercolors piece by piece, tucking them into her pockets to burn later, and spreads her blanket over the mattress.

Then she returns to the children, who doze, oblivious to her presence, until she prods their ankles with her foot to wake them up.

“Mmnngh…”

“Bed,” she declares, loud enough to make them start. “Up. Come along.”

“But we’re not _tired,_ ” the little one whines.

“Don’t lie unless you can make it convincing,” Helcha says absently, “it’s bad manners. _Up._ ”

She tugs her pillow out from the bottom of the pile while they wallow to their feet, blinking and rubbing their eyes. As she wafts them down the corner, the taller one breathes, “We get a _bunk?_ ”

“For tonight,” Helcha replies, tossing her pillow into her bunk and then holding out a hand to help them clamber inside. “No doubt there’ll be another argument on the matter of sleeping arrangements tomorrow, once everyone’s rested. We’ve more people aboard than there are bunks, meaning some of us will be relegated to hammocks in the hold.”

“Th-that sounds more f-f-fun than a stupid _bed,_ ” the little one sneers. Her enormous yawn rather spoils the effect.

“Then you’re welcome to volunteer tomorrow. For now— _in._ It’s very late, and growing children need their rest.”

She looks as if she _wants_ to argue, but fatigue wins out; she grumbles something about _bossy grown-ups_ under her breath as she climbs in next to her friend. Her eyelids droop the instant her head touches the pillow.

“Sleep,” Helcha says.

“Mmph.”

Shaking her head, Helcha goes to flick off the lamps—leaving nothing but the eerie green haze of the safety light—and she has one foot on the ladder when she hears the taller one whisper, “Um. Miss?”

“…Yes?”

“Wh-where’s Lance? Is… he going to be okay?”

_Oh, dear._

Helcha snares a sigh between her teeth and pads back down the corridor. “Sitheach is with him, child. He’ll be alright.”

“Is… Sitheach a doctor?”

“…Not… exactly. They’re a _cháthar,_ like me. It means they use magic, and… they’ll heal him.” Sitheach would, no doubt, have a lot to say if they heard her describe their arts as _healing;_ her lips twitch.

The girl blinks at her, muddled with exhaustion and worry. “‘They?’”

Helcha quells her impatience with an effort. Children do not learn from having their curiosity quashed. “That,” she sighs, “is the closest approximation of the Saporian _źa._ As ‘he’ is for _śa_ and ‘she’ for _za._ Sitheach is… they’re _źan._ I’m not sure how to translate it.”

She braces for an onslaught of new questions, but the girl merely sinks into the pillow with an incomprehensible mumble. Fading, fast.

“…Now,” Helcha murmurs, “ _sleep._ And dream well, child.”

## ❦

They’d been in Vardaros for nineteen hours.

Not even a whole day.

For some reason, it’s _that_ thought haunting Cassandra as they sail across Lake Carca. Yesterday morning, her greatest worry had been that Moira didn’t _trust_ her enough. It seems so ridiculous now that Cassandra rasps out a bitter chuckle, which the wind snatches from her mouth with an answering shriek.

It had all gone wrong so _fast,_ and now the minutes bleed by—

The _Zampermin_ is fast, but the wind is against them; they clip back and forth through it, carving a series of jagged turns through the water.

It’s a big lake.

_Two hours._

Kai venom is faster.

Nerves skitter through her stomach. She hits the starboard rail and whirls around to stalk back over the deck. It’s been an hour since they hit the water, and Vardaros is an ember smoldering on the distant shore; Garioch, a brighter, steadier glow on the opposite side. The first inklings of dawn have diluted the blackness of the eastern horizon to a murky grey.

Sitheach hasn’t come out of the great cabin to announce that Lance is _dead,_ yet, which is something—

“Captain needs you.”

The startling boom of Mael’s voice wrenches Cassandra around. Mirth glints in her eyes, though her amusement quickly crumbles into concern as she takes Cassandra’s expression.

“Sorry—what?”

“Caine,” Mael elaborates, jerking her chin toward the prow. “Said she wanted a word. You alright?”

“I’m—” She’s fine. She’s _fine._ “—Yeah… yeah. Thanks.”

The words fall very flat, scraped hollow and bowled over by the wind—by _everything_ —but Mael just offers her a kind smile, claps her shoulder, and ambles on to take up her lines for the next tack. Cassandra wobbles, numb, and changes course.

Moira’s waiting for her in the crook where the bizarre figurehead meets the railing. Shimmering light bathes her face, mantling her shoulders in opalescence; she looks grim, and a cold new current of dread splashes out of the depths as Cassandra steps up next to her.

_Is she angry? Did I do—_

Of course she’s done things _wrong,_ Cassandra reminds herself, irate. Lost her temper—twisted herself into such a knot trying to please _Rapunzel_ that she’d made a mess of things with Moira instead—and then she’d promised to be _there_ for Moira but spent the better part of the day comforting _Rapunzel_ while Moira bore all of this alone and—

“There’s blood on your face,” Moira says. “Here.”

—it all congeals into a sickly lump in her stomach.

_Blood._

That’s the itchy, dirtied sensation clinging to her face.

_Right._

“It’s– it isn’t—mine.”

Had she felt the bolt coming? Had she flinched out of its path? Was _that_ why her saber skated over the watchman’s spaulder the way it did?

Would he still be alive if that shot had hit her?

Or was it because she’d gone in with her off hand—

“ _Here,_ ” Moira says again; this time, Cassandra notes the cloth in her hand, which she holds up in offering. “Let me?”

If she opens her mouth, she’s going to scream. Cassandra clamps her eyes shut and nods, not trusting herself to speak, and shivers when Moira cups the back of her head. Holds her still. Brings the cloth to her face. It’s coarse. Damp, and warm, although the sharp wind gives the moisture a chilly sting.

_Breathe._

“Whose is it?” Moira asks.

“I– I… don’t…”

“A watchman?”

Cassandra shudders. “Yeah.”

“Dead?”

“…Y-yeah.”

Warm fingertips smooth the curls away from her brow. The cloth scrapes her cheek, and Moira makes a soft, toneless sound at the base of her throat.

“I, uh, got sick for a week the first time I ever killed someone.”

“D- did you?”

“I was nineteen. It… was late, on the Tenth of Dīnáchīr.”

Her heart sinks. “The… the Lantern Festival.”

“Mm.” Sighing, Moira mutters, “Lots of people go out before the lanterns do to get blind drunk and– and remember what _we_ lost. There’s always fights. I mean, you get a bunch of drunk angry people in a bar together… _Tch._ But there were riots that year.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, well. No Coronans got hurt,” she drawls. “Probably why you didn’t hear about it. This was before the Separatists really got a foothold—Andrew… his family, the Náchars? They’re the richest Saporians in the city. Lived up on Nācháth all _cozy_ —and… Seven, eight years ago there were plenty of Alcorsīans thinking _they_ had the right idea, bending over for Corona. Any time the grumbling in the lower tiers got loud enough they’d storm down to shut us up. So…”

Moira pulls the cloth away from her face, and her skin prickles, a little raw, nipped by the wind. She cracks open her eyes and finds Moira gazing past her, mouth twisted in a small, joyless smile.

“That’s how I got this,” Moira says, touching her arm. Tracing the line of the scar Cassandra had seen— _was it really only nineteen hours ago?_ —carved from her elbow to the tattoo on her shoulder; hidden now by the sleeves of her coat. “This woman knocked me down; she had a knife—I… found out later her name was Abigail Déghasī.”

“You killed her.”

“Yeah. And… she was Saporian, so… no one cared. I’ll be twenty-five next week and I- I still think about that.”

She lapses into silence, and Cassandra studies the harsh, brooding lines of her expression, wondering whether Moira _meant_ to tell her this, or if it just slipped free—knocked loose by the grueling day and sleepless ordeal of the night, wrung out by her exhaustion and the stains of another battle.

Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Cassandra edges closer, bumping their shoulders together.

“You did what you had to,” Moira says. “I know that doesn’t make it feel any better, but…”

“Th–there were casualties in Socona.” Cassandra rakes her teeth over her lip, and when Moira wraps an arm around her waist, she leans gratefully into her. “I mean– I _watched_ you—this shouldn’t—I don’t know why this is so much w-worse.”

Nightmares of the carnage had haunted her, after Socona. Broken soldiers marching through aspen trees with blood down their fronts and screams in their mouths; once she’d dreamed herself in Coronan armor, and Moira smiling, sly as a fox, as she drew a dagger across Cassandra’s throat— _that_ had been a bad night—but the memories hadn’t imprinted themselves behind her eyelids in her waking hours. Not like this.

“Because it was _you,_ ” Moira says gently. “Your hand on the blade. It’s different.”

Cassandra stares out at the choppy water and says nothing.

_Nineteen hours. All this in nineteen hours._

She’s exhausted. There’s blood on her hands and a vacant pit in her stomach where guilt should be, and the grey dawn feels heartlessly bleak; reducing Vardaros to a charcoaled smudge in the distance as the city douses its lights, one by one.

And Sitheach has yet to emerge from the great cabin.

## ❦

Mael cracks her jaw around a yawn as she unfolds herself out of the rowboat. Even the cutting wind and frequent slop of icy spray into her lap hadn’t been enough to ward off her fatigue; now she’s just _cold_ and tired. Grimacing, she stamps her half-frozen feet against the pier to get the blood moving again.

_Damned winter. Damned Coronans!_

If they’d been a bit less set on behaving like _fools_ she wouldn’t be in thrice-damned soggy _Garioch,_ marching down the pier at half seven in the morning in _Shalámaer._

She grumbles, stomping. Frost crackles underfoot.

A detour through Garioch would’ve been _fine_ in spring or summer. It’s _nice_ then. But unlike Vardaros—whose sturdy docks harken back to the time when ships like the _Zampermin_ were commonplace and the Eldoran city was a thriving hub of cross-continental trade—Garioch’s only noteworthy feature is that it had, about two centuries ago, hit the lake shore and just _kept going._ Half the town’s afloat on a sprawling raft, which fans out over the water and stinks of waterproofing pitch and lakeweed—and somehow _still_ doesn’t have the space to moor a ship the _Zampermin’s_ size.

Hence the rowboat, and hence her now thoroughly frosted trousers. The mid-winter cold is wet and _bitter._

Not many others about at this hour—not in the wintertime. Mostly barge-men, loading cargo that’ll ship to Vardaros or Charcāthēn or one of the half-dozen little towns huddled around the edges of Lake Carca. They’re all bundled up and look about as miserable as _she_ is, which is comforting somehow.

Misery, company.

_Hmph._

She hurries.

They don’t pay her a bit of mind as she strides down the pier to the ferry terminal. It’s a long and narrow structure at the eastern edge of town, with the ferry offices at one end and a series of warehouses stacked up end-to-end next to it.

Just enough warmer inside to give the impression that the pitiful stove responsible for heating the place is mocking her desire for warmth. Mael gives it a scowl as she skirts around the queue of sleepy-looking morning travelers to poke her head into the back room.

“You kids ready to go?”

Varian snorts out of his doze and springs to attention like a soldier caught drowsing during his watch, and Mael grins a bit despite the general shittiness of the morning.

“ _Gah—_ Mael! You’re here!”

“Am so,” she says, strolling inside. “Animals all alright? Good. Hurry it along, now—come on, Princess, up you get… _whew,_ that eye!”

Rapunzel looks a mess. The swelling around her eye’s come down enough to show the spill of crimson where tiny veins popped in the white of her eye, and the skin all around has bruised to the deep color of an overripe plum. She moans as Mael helps her to her feet.

“We’re in a hurry?” Varian asks. “Did– did something go wrong? Is everyone—”

“No one’s dead,” she grunts. “Baron poisoned Lance, though.”

“ _Poisoned_ —?”

“Yep.” Mael wafts Rapunzel through the office and out onto the frostbitten pier, coughs the cold out of her lungs, and lengthens her stride; Varian trots along at her heels, looking pale. “Kai venom. Nasty stuff. Sitheach’s with him now; needs the sundrop—” she pats the Princess’s back, then makes a hasty grab for her shoulders when she wobbles “—meaning _her,_ to fix it.”

“O-oh—but the sundrop’s—”

“He’ll be alright,” Mael says briskly. “Don’t tell Sitheach I said this, but they’re a damned good medic—last time we lost someone—”

Wincing, she cuts herself off; clamps her teeth together, and lets air whistle through them instead. _Not a great time._

“…What?” Varian says anxiously. “What happened?”

“Her name was Cornaīn,” she says, a little rough. “She, uh—went fast. Gone before Sitheach could reach her. Anyway, the– the _point_ —Lance’ll be okay. He will. And—you don’t _have_ to help, mind—but if you’re hurting for something to take your mind off, there’s plenty else to do in the meantime.”

## ❦

It creeps in slow.

It leeches the swarming, oily colors away and sucks the air dry, and then the ashen husk of the night cracks and peels like an old sunburn. Somehow or another Lance finds himself on his feet—that’s about when he figures out he’s dreaming—in a grey…

…Place.

That’s the only word that comes to mind as he takes in the flat expanse. A quiet place. A _still_ place. The ground beneath his feet is smooth and faultless stone, muffled by a fine layer of powdery ash, and it stretches out and stretches out and stretches—

He walks, for lack of anything better to do.

“Hello?” he calls, but only once, because the way the emptiness smothers his voice is… wrong. Lance swallows. His mouth feels gritty and dry.

The silence lingers after that, interminable until it isn’t.

_Snick. Snick. Snick._

It seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, somehow papery. Lance swivels slowly in place, searching for its source.

Nothing.

_Snick. Snick._

His lips form the words _who’s there,_ but he can’t find the nerve to give them voice. He takes another halting, shambling step. Then another, and a third.

_Snick._

“Hello,” says a voice behind him.

Lance shrieks as he spins around—trips—hits the ashen ground with a rattling _thud._ Then he looks up through the hazy scrim of dust kicked up by his fall and shrieks again.

A skeletal canine looms over him. Its tall as a horse and slim as a sight-hound: a creature of grey dirt packed between polished bones. Iron hackles cover its neck and shoulders, stained a dull red-brown by rust, and its teeth are long, black jags of iron.

Tarnished silver orbs sit in its sockets where eyes should be. Lance shrinks from his own reflection, squeaking in terror as the gigantic hand swings its head toward him.

It sits, licking its jaws with a tongue of dirt, and watches him.

“I am here,” it says, toneless and dry. Dust trickles from the gaping cavities in its skull as it sniffs. “You should not be.”

“I-I’m– sorry? Who—this… _is_ a dream, right?”

“No,” the hound says, folding its paws neatly together. “I am the one called Cathay. This is mine; you are out of place.”

_Cathay._

Dread washes through him. He’s heard that name before—spoken hushed with reverence or fear. He’s heard some of the stories. He even saw an old shrine, once, carved into a dusty, forgotten niche in the basement of an old house in Alcorsīa where one of his thief-taking contacts had been lying low.

_The Bone Hound._

“Am– am I dead?”

His arm—his arm is _fine,_ the skin smooth and brown where it should be riddled with the bloated green of kai venom—so does that mean…?

“No,” Cathay says slowly, sounding neither pleased nor displeased. “Not yet. You will die—” she says _that_ like it’s supposed to reassure him somehow “—in time. Everything must. Death is the only certainty.”

“Um,” Lance says. “Thank…you?”

“But not yet,” she says again, clicking her teeth together. “I have a message for my servant. You will deliver it.”

“…Um.”

She crouches forward, bringing her muzzle so close to his face that he can see nothing but teeth and bone and flakes of ash speckling her jaws, and Lance whimpers, pressing himself into the grit. Fear gleams starkly at the center of his thoughts.

“I will allow it once,” Cathay says, “because there was no prohibition against it. I am not unreasonable. However. They spoke to you of Marchach; they would do well to remember how she ended.”

“Uh–“

“That is the message. You will tell them, in those exact words. They will understand my meaning.”

“O-okay,” he squeaks.

Her jaws part. Lance lies rooted to the spot as one of her knife-blade fangs punctures his cheek and pain stabs into his skull, cold as ice.

She lifts her head. The dirt-tongue lolls between her jaws.

“Until the next, child,” she says.

Then she turns away from him and pads away, silent save for the muffled _snick_ of her bony paws against the hard ground. Cathay does not look back when he sits up, and without her, the stillness piles in again. Clutching his face, Lance scrambles to his feet.

“W-wait—”

She flakes into ash, which drifts down, listless, and mingles with the rest of the grit. Panting, Lance spins in another circle.

Nothing else stirs.

He’s alone.

He’s alone—and he can’t decide if that’s better or _worse._

Caked in ash, spitting ash, he picks a direction at random and starts to walk again. His face aches, and when he prods at his cheek, his shaking fingers find sharp crystals forming along the cut—dark red in his palm. Blood. _Frozen_ blood.

“—h-how do I—?”

It’s a bare, hoarse whisper from brittle lungs. Ears ringing, Lance bends over and coughs, and coughs, and coughs until dark spots bloom in his eyes and crimson particles of frost pepper the ground. He staggers. He shambles like a drunk.

_(Flower, gleam and—)_

Shadows overtake him as he sinks to his knees, wheezing. The hard ground crumbles away, and he sinks, limp, into an oozing, formless blackness.

Voices percolate through the murk, contorted and strange.

“—not _working!_ It’s g-gone, I t-t- _told_ you it’s—”

“Dormant, not dead.”

“ _Gone—”_

“Drivel. You carry its magic in your flesh, your bones…”

Something heavy drags him down. Lance tries to scream, but nothing comes out—no sound—no _anything_ —

“…in my hair.”

“And in your blood.”

Numb, squirming silence. Lance pours his full concentration into the thought of _movement—_ a twitch of his toe, a curl of his finger— _anything,_ anything to shatter the chains of deathlike stillness holding him now.

_Move. Move. Move—_

“I-I don’t understand.”

“No? Every invocation has its price, Princess. If you wish to partake of magic, you must let it partake of you in turn. Listen to it; bleed for it.”

“I can’t– I-I can’t—”

“No? Then he will die.”

 _Wake up,_ Lance thinks, straining. _Wake up. It’s just a dream. It’s got to be a dream. What kind of a sick joke is this?!_

A quiet sob ripples through the darkness.

“Take off the bandages, Princess. That’s it. Hush; it’s alright. Magic is an act of surrender; to the sublime, and to yourself. Relinquish your fear. Sing, if it helps. But… ask, and trust.”

There is a long, breathless pause.

Then: “Flower… g-gl-gleam and… _glow_ —”

Warmth blossoms in his chest. Something trills in his ear, and delicate traceries of gold unfurl in the darkness. The singer whimpers.

“That’s it. Go on.”

“…let your power shine…”

It’s a lilting, melancholy tune. Unfamiliar but pleasant. Lance relaxes as it washes over him, and the golden light threads itself around his limbs, nestling into his chest with a catlike purr.

(He’d wanted a cat, when he was a little kid. A big fluffy one, with lime-green eyes and a soft calico coat. He’d name it Clovis and give it the nicest, fanciest collar a cat could ever want, and on rainy days it would curl up and purr on his chest while he practiced his reading, and they’d keep each other warm…)

The darkness loosens its grip. He tilts gently sideways into the hard press of wood against his back, and a film of cold sweat clinging to his skin; it occurs to him in the midst of the disorienting haze that he’s lying on his back, and there’s a warm, sticky hand upon his chest.

“…what once was—m-mine…”

Lance opens his eyes.

Bright green eyes hover above him, shiny with tears. One swollen by a magnificent bruise. A pale, round, freckled face.

Rapunzel.

 _That was her voice,_ he thinks muzzily. _Singing?_

She isn’t singing anymore. Some of her tears splash his face, and she whimpers, and then she’s gone. Groaning, Lance wobbles himself into a sitting position. His body feels like a sponge that’s been viciously wrung out. But.

“…Nngh?”

Befuddled, he blinks down at himself. Shirt’s gone—a vague recollection of many hands tugging it off him bubbles in the back of his mind—and his torso is streaked with… flaky reddish paint, which itches, and… sap?

Patches of scaly, greenish skin mottle his chest and arm. His fingers tingle, still, but they wriggle when he tries, and they’re not bloated like sausages anymore.

“You appear to be alive,” Sitheach comments mildly. “Good.”

They sit cross-legged at his feet with their fingers steepled against their chin, unblinking.

“…Nn. Y-yeah.”

Rapunzel’s slumped beside them, cradling her hand. Her bandages have been peeled back to her wrists, leaving her tattered palms exposed. Reddish-gold sap smears her fingers. She’s still crying.

And she’d… sung. The healing incantation? Lance rubs his face, trying to muddle through the confusing slurry of the last… couple hours, if the weak daylight coming through the window’s anything to judge by.

Adira had carried him out of the jail. He remembers _that_ much.

Now his mouth tastes like ash and he aches all over and he’s covered in kai venom scars and he’s _alive,_ somehow.

_Huh. Fancy that._

“Wha’ happened?” he groans.

“Magic,” Sitheach drawls, getting to their feet. They hoist Rapunzel up after them, humming. “I’m going to escort her to bed, and inform the crew of your survival. Take deep breaths. Do _not_ move until I return. It has been an… interesting night, and we have a great deal to discuss.”

“Nn—mmhm.”

He’s too wiped out to move anyway, so when Sitheach steers the Princess out, Lance just shuts his eyes and breathes.

He’s… alive.

A weary grin spreads over his face.

He’s _alive._


	9. Chapter 9: Wherever the Breeze is Going

###  **Chapter 9: Wherever the Breeze is Going**

Brambles fill the berthing when Cassandra rolls out of the tattering mire of her dreams. She rubs her face, blearily, and thinks, _oh, well, isn’t that great._

The dark vegetation wisps around her fingers when she puts out her hand, dissipating like smoke caught in a breeze. She smacks her lips to clear the swampy taste out of her mouth and sits up. Tendrils of shadow skitter along the veneer, stubborn.

Disgruntled, Cassandra shimmies around so she can lean against the bulkhead with her legs dangling into the corridor, nudging the curtain open to invite more light into the berthing. Warm lamplight spills into her lap, and her mouth twists in disgust.

Nineteen hours in Vardaros had left her spattered with blood and soot and other, less identifiable grime. Mud cakes her boots and the hem of her cloak, and the sticky feeling above her forehead gives her the horrible suspicion that she slept with blood matted in her hair.

Sitheach had emerged from the great cabin around nine o’clock with a curt, “He’ll live,” and, after adding her voice to the general cheer, Cassandra had trudged down and collapsed, boots and bloodstains and all, into her bunk. She doesn’t even remember her head hitting the pillow.

She groans, and bends stiffly to work off her boots. They hit the deck with a _thunk,_ and she drops her filthy socks after them before unbuckling Moira’s saber from her belt and clambering out of the berthing to strip. Her muscles twang their grievances as she finds her footing on the gently-rocking deck.

Gloves, cloak. She spreads the jack out on her bunk to clean later, then shucks off her shirt, trousers, and smallclothes and leaves it all in a disgusting, sooty pile in front of her bunk. Crouches to rifle through the locker for fresh clothes and her cleanest-looking rag, glad for the stillness of the cabin.

Undressing in the corridor still makes her heart pound; a drumbeat of embarrassment and instinctive fear. If she’d done anything like this in Herzingen it would’ve gotten her sent to the convent in Kongsburg so fast her head would have spun, and when she’d stared down the realities of living with nine other people in a space maybe half the size of her private room in the palace, mortification had scorched her like wildfire. The crew had been kind about it, with averted glances and casual chatter in the mornings offering the closest thing to privacy the ship had to offer; and after a while their comforting indifference to the whole ordeal and the practicality demanded by such close quarters had doused the conflagration to a few smoky, furtive embers. She ducks behind the ladder to let herself into the tiny washroom on the other side, relief slumping her against the sliding door as she latches it closed behind her.

The washroom had been its own surprise.

Cassandra had never properly been to sea before—never for longer than the half-day it takes for barges to sail from Herzingen to one of the handful of other settlements dotting the Coronan coast—but like anyone in Herzingen, she grew up on enough sailor’s tales to have a vague idea that hygiene aboard a seafaring vessel involved hoses and seawater in some capacity. The big merchant ships that fill Herzingen’s harbors belch out their crews salt-bleached and stinking of brine.

She’d spent the first few hours after they fled Socona mired, accordingly, between grubby discomfort and suffocating awkwardness until Helcha took pity on her and ambled over to say, “Washroom’s free if you’d like a shower.”

“The… what?”

“Washroom,” Helcha said again, giving Cassandra a concerned look that didn’t make any sense until she added, in a far more careful tone, “They _do_ have—Coronans do _bathe,_ don’t they?”

Which had left Cassandra stammering and too flustered to ask what in the world a _shower_ was—but she’d figured that out quick enough. The washroom is a narrow compartment nestled against the hull, lit by a handful of small ports and cut in half by a folding screen of copper wire, woven like wicker. On the near side there’s a couple hooks for clothing and space enough to turn around in if she keeps her elbows tucked close; the far side is incrementally more spacious and thatched with a mess of copper piping, which snakes around the lacquered beams supporting the main deck to feed a tarnished brass nozzle the size of Cassandra’s fist. There’s a bar of soap in a likewise tarnished cage nailed to the bulkhead, and a copper grate in the deck for the water to drain and run out through the hull. She’d spent most of her first shower standing under a steady stream of inexplicably warm water, charmed and a little dazed by the whole contraption.

It’s certainly _efficient._

How it works, she couldn’t begin to guess. She didn’t ask then, too nervous that the answer would be _magic,_ and by now she’s gleaned enough to know there’s a cistern hidden in the hull somewhere. That’s good enough for her.

Cassandra tugs the chain dangling from the nozzle and applies herself to scrubbing. The grime of the city sloughs away, and with it goes some of the coagulated mess of feelings she’s been drowning in since midwinter; chased out by warmth and fatigue and the meditative exercise of cleanliness. Tranquillity drips into the empty spaces left behind.

She feels like she’s been tumbling off a mountain ever since Tárosh, never stopping for longer than it took to spit the blood out of her mouth before the next ledge crumbled beneath her, and now she finds herself in a startled heap at the bottom, alive in total defiance of everything that _should_ have happened when she leapt from the summit on Unification Day.

Bruised and bloodied, sure. But she’d made it, and now she can stagger to her feet and just— _breathe,_ for a minute.

_What changed?_

Cassandra passes the soap from one hand to the other, contemplative. The obvious answer—that she’d killed someone—sits uneasily in her mind. She holds it close, turns it around to feel the sharp edges of it, the way it cuts under her heart like a sliver of glass. His face isn’t anything but a pale blur in her memory, framed in rusted chainmail that hadn’t saved him, but her left palm still tingles with the feel of his flesh parting and the sharp, sudden impact of the saber against his spine. Violence whispered up the length of the blade and wove itself into her skin, reproachful.

It doesn’t _look_ different. She frowns, discarding the soap, and rubs her thumb into the heel of her left. Pale. Callused. Faint green impressions of veins chase each other under the skin, and beneath her thumb there’s the pallid bubble of scarring where some vexed little creature bit her in the Demanitus Chamber two months ago. Four parallel scratches rake across the back of her hand, and a fifth scores a dark and jagged line into the webbing between her thumb and forefinger. Marks Zhan Tiri left behind. Reminders of a battle she had no right to survive. They itch under the steady flow of water.

Cassandra exhales, and her fingers shake as she reaches up to tug the chain again. The nozzle splutters, chokes, and runs dry. She stands in place for a moment, dripping.

A man died when she lost control of her blade, and she’ll never know whether it happened because she carried it in her left instead of her right or flinched from the crossbowman’s shot or a hundred other things, and maybe it doesn’t matter; Cassandra made a mistake, and someone else paid for it with his life. She clenches her fist.

 _I’ll train harder,_ she thinks. _Both hands. I won’t let that happen again._

Pushing the screen back with a rattle, Cassandra squeezes into the other side of the washroom and flicks her rag down from its hook to pat herself dry, shaking water out of her hair.

_But it isn’t just that, is it?_

If the watchman’s death had been the last cliff before her body hit the ground, then perhaps Rapunzel was her final avalanche, and she’s picking herself up amidst the detrius of a friendship that now seems like it’d been doomed from the beginning; the princess and her traitor. Except Rapunzel’s a princess in exile now, and Cassandra doesn’t ever intend to crawl back into Corona’s arms. Maybe they can try again.

_Do I want to?_

Yes.

_How?_

Dry enough, now, she hangs up the rag again and starts to dress, running her lip through her teeth. If Rapunzel comes looking for her, then they’ll talk, but otherwise she’ll keep her distance for a few days. Figure out some sort of peace offering.

_Hm._

Sitheach hadn’t elaborated on the miracle of Lance’s survival, but with Rapunzel dribbling golden sap all over the deck, they hadn’t really _needed_ to. They’d rekindled the sundrop’s healing magic, and Cassandra—thinking of the long, bone-handled knife Sitheach uses to work their own magic and the lacework of vegetation that gloved Rapunzel’s forearms on midwinter night—realizes she has a pretty good idea _how._

Less clear is the question of why. Every legend of the healing flower has a song; an ancient chant crumbling under the weight of time, or lilting melodies imparted by guardian-birds to humble petitioners, or lullabies sung by a queen decaying on her deathbed. Someone sings, and the sundrop answers.

No bloodletting required.

Cutting the hair had made the magic go dormant until the black rocks roused part of it again; and the black rocks trail death and disease in their wake. Had they done something to the healing magic? Corrupted it somehow—tainted it with their violence?

Lips pursed, Cassandra does up the laces of her shirt. It sounds… plausible enough. Magic flowers, magic rocks. Darkness and light hung in a delicate, disrupted balance. She rolls the questions over; lines them up like pebbles to ask Sitheach later. Then she’ll compare notes with Varian, and maybe talk to Lance about the experience if he’s feeling up to it.

She’ll let Rapunzel rest before meeting her with answers, and then… maybe they’ll give it another shot. Or maybe the Princess will wallow in the cargo hold all the way to Aphelion, and Cassandra won’t stand in her way.

She isn’t a lady-in-waiting. Maintaining her friendship with Rapunzel at the cost of everything else is not her job, and she is not responsible for Rapunzel’s comfort or happiness.

The guilt churning in her stomach is only a vestige of the time before her devotion to Corona shattered and her loyalties broke with it.

She is not Rapunzel’s servant anymore.

It’s time she acted like it.

Cassandra dredges a stale sigh out of her lungs, tilting her head to check her appearance in the spotty mirror hung from the washroom door. Fine, if frizzy—and no one aboard the _Zampermin_ cares if her curls are doing… whatever. She pokes her tongue between her teeth and whips her rag off its hook, then slinks out of the washroom.

_Moira will be pleased. I… think._

Sighing again, she drops cross-legged onto the deck in front of her locker. She already knows what she wants to say to Moira.

It’s just… it’s a lot.

Easier to focus on her meager possessions. Cassandra folds up her soiled clothes and sets them aside to toss in with the rest of the laundry later. Her cursory rummage through the locker hadn’t turned up a single dagger, and a more thorough examination confirms that absence: when the watchmen tossed the cabin, they must’ve taken _both_ her spare daggers.

Fantastic.

That leaves her with her parrying dagger and the two smaller knives she’d tucked into her jack in case of emergencies. As if her ruined broadsword and the gorgeous but inadequate replacement of her loaned saber wasn’t enough; at this rate, she won’t have a blade left to her name by little spring.

Cassandra groans.

“Problem?”

She glances up, and finds Sobēl poking her head out of the adjacent berthing, looking rumpled and still halfway asleep.

“They took my daggers.”

“What dogs,” Sobēl yawns, and crawls out of the berthing to stretch and moan while her joints crackle in a way that is still just as alarming now as it was the first time Cassandra witnessed this morning routine. “What’s the time?”

“No idea.” Tongue pressed against her teeth, Cassandra reaches into the locker to sweep her hand blindly into the corners. “Only been up for a minute—ha!”

She huffs in triumph as she palms the squashed little bone-frog Sirin gave her, and rocks back on her heels to make sure it’s still in one piece.

“Lucky charm?” Sobēl asks, eyeing it.

“Sort… of.” Cassandra clasps it against her chest, relieved that the watchmen had either missed it or left it as worthless junk—and breathes out. “Who’s on laundry today?”

“Me.”

“You want help?”

“Nah. Lotta decks to swab if you’re keen for scrubbing. Otherwise—” Sobēl sighs breezily “—Pocket’s probably in need of another hand. Vardaran bastards stripped the cargo hold bare, so we’re in a bit of a scramble for supplies to get us to Quintonia.”

“Maybe Sitheach’ll even let me pick something up,” Cassandra says dryly.

“Ha! Maybe so. Don’t let me keep you, Morgenstern—I’ll run your things down to laundry if you’d like.”

“Could you? Blankets too, I probably tracked mud everywhere—”

“No trouble,” Sobēl says brightly. “The jack?”

“No—I’ll take care of that myself in a bit. Velvet’s delicate and the plates need oiling….”

Chuckling, Sobēl leans past her to strip the blankets off the bunk, then stoops to gather Cassandra’s sooty clothes. “Look at you, all fancy. Cheers.”

## ❦

_Flower, gleam and—_

“Oh, my dear Flower.”

Rapunzel wilts into the colorful flagstones as Mother’s voice settles around her shoulders with velvet softness. Fear pulses in her veins, but it’s dull. Muted. Habitual.

“I warned you, didn’t I?” Mother hums, somewhere between kind and chiding, and Rapunzel shuts her eyes.

She’s so tired, and it hurts so _much._

“I did, dear. I really did try.”

Mother kneels beside her, smoothing her hair with warm, soft fingertips. A lump forms in Rapunzel’s throat; without opening her eyes, she pulls her knees up to her chest and leans into the touch—the way she used to, when she was small and Mother let her snuggle in for comfort after her nightmares.

She had a lot of nightmares, as a child.

“You did, Mother.”

_…let your power shine…_

_…make the clock reverse, bring back what once…_

Singing the incantation had always felt so _nice._ It kindled warmth in the tips of her toes and filled her up to the brim with sunlight and the pleasant drowsiness of a summer morning. She would bask in it, comfortable, contented, awash in gold.

_…was…_

There’s a hollow burn in her chest now. Like someone scooped out her heart and filled her veins with cinders to cauterize the bleeding.

“…a-and you were right,” Rapunzel whispers, voice cracking.

Life in her tower had been small, yes, but simple, too. Safe. Those high, doorless walls had given her sanctuary from the ravages of the world outside, and the years she spent cloistered in that cage had been idyllic. She did as Mother asked, took care of her hair, and cooked and cleaned and dreamt and sang—and, no, it hadn’t been the most exciting way to live, but she had not been _unhappy._

The rarefied joy and beauty of her first few months of freedom seem like little more than a fever dream, now; that naive blossoming of wonder had blinded her to the gilded cage wrought by the tiara upon her head and the lofty white towers of the royal palace—to say nothing of the darkness she would, in time, find lurking beyond the fine-spun bars of her new prison. No sooner had Rapunzel settled into the comfort of that dream than it was ripped from her by the cruel woman who claims to be Cassandra’s aunt; and since then she has been screamed at and blamed for things that are not her fault, kidnapped and cut open and locked away like a prized treasure to be guarded and _used,_ and her best friend betrayed her, and a witch more vile than even Mother could have dreamed had squirmed inside her head to corrupt the very things she held most dear, all for the sake of a demon who would rend the world apart should he ever escape from his otherworldly prison.

“I’m so tired, Mother. I– I want to rest.”

“I know,” Mother croons, “but there’s no going back _now,_ silly flower. That _dreadful_ thief of yours must have thought himself so noble, mm? When he _cut_ —” her nails rasp over Rapunzel’s scalp “—your beautiful hair.”

“Mother, I…”

The words _I’m sorry_ stick too much in her throat to tear them free, and Rapunzel lifts her head to gaze morosely into the dead hearth. It always burned with so much cheer—but it’s cold now and choked with grey ash. Piles and piles of her hair coil in front of it, serpentine, dull brown and seeping the smell of decaying vegetation into the air. Dust carpets the painted flagstones, and the light filtering through the shuttered windows is listless and sickly. The indifferent darkness of the outside world has infected her tower, brick by brick, and bleak hostility radiates from every corner. She shudders.

_…save what has been lost…_

“Shall I tell you a secret, Flower? I would have thought you’d realize by now, but—” Mother laughs her chiming, brittle laugh “—you’ve always been a little slow on the uptake, dear, haven’t you? A little naive. A little, hm, what’s the word—ah, _vague._ Isn’t that right?”

Rapunzel looks up, then, pleas for forgiveness ready on her tongue, and gets her first real look at Mother’s face.

She screams.

Coals simmer in the hollow pits of Mother’s eyes. Soot smears her sunken, waxy cheeks, and her hair is a tangle of sere bramble, crumbling to white ash at the tips.

“You foolish, simple _child,_ ” Mother hisses, lunging forward to grip her chin with long, clawed fingers. “Did you think he set you free? _Tsk,_ no, look at you—my naive, _selfish,_ empty-headed little flower!”

“Let– let me go!”

Mother shrieks with laughter, clutching her harder. “I should have ripped out your _heart_ and _buried it—!_ ”

“—punzel! _RAPUNZEL!_ ”

Gasping, Rapunzel wakes. Light streams into her eyes in a confusing slurry of white and gold and pink—

“ _Oh,_ ” she wheezes. Gleaming golden strands writhe around her face, but as her heartbeat steadies and the deep shadows of the nightmare flake away, her hair dims and settles. The hammock rocks gently with the motion of the ship, and Eugene runs his fingers through her hair, concern writ across his face. “Th–that… was a dream.”

“…Yeah,” Eugene sighs. “But your hair—”

Whatever he sees in her face stops him cold, and for a moment there’s silence. He clears his throat. She presses her fingertips into her temples and rubs in small circles, like she’s seen Dad do during protracted arguments with his advisors.

“It, uh… sounded like a pretty bad one,” Eugene says instead. “You okay, Sunshine? Are you feeling… better?”

“Nnn.”

Mostly, she feels… not very good. Her head pounds like it’s about to crack open. Even her _hair_ aches, somehow. Plus she’s a little nauseous, and the slow rolling of the ship doesn’t help.

 _The ship._ Rapunzel grimaces as the full implications of that hit her. Her memories of yesterday ooze like honey; she’d spent hours sitting with Varian somewhere in… what _had_ the town’s name been? _Garrick?_

Then the bosun had come for them, stinking of blood and smoke, and brought them back to the ship, where— where…

Fresh bandages swaddle her palms, crisp and white. Rapunzel studies the layers of gauze, and a hazy recollection of Eugene pruning tiny flowers from her reopened wounds drizzles into her thoughts like spring rain.

“…Sunshine?”

“Um. I… do feel… more like me,” she hedges. “What time is it?”

“Almost two,” Eugene says.

“What? In the– in the _afternoon?!_ ”

It must be, if the frigid light pouring through the cargo grate is any indication, but it isn’t until Eugene nods that she can bring herself to _believe_ it.

“I’ve never slept all day before,” Rapunzel says, baffled. “Wow.”

“Varian said as long as you were breathing normally to just let you sleep. And, really, if it weren’t for that nightmare, I’ll bet you could’ve slept right on ’til tomorrow morning.” Eugene smiles, though the warm crinkles around his eyes don’t _quite_ mask his worry. “You wanna sit up, Sunshine? Walk around? Maybe eat something?”

The idea of food turns her stomach, but fresh air… Rapunzel nods, and scoops Pascal from her lap to her shoulder while Eugene helps her out of the hammock. It’s harder than she expects: vertigo slams into her like a wall the instant she lifts her head, and she has to clutch Eugene’s neck, wobbling, just to stay on her feet.

“ _Whew_ —um— _that’s_ new.”

“I’ve gotcha,” he says. “Give it a minute. See if it passes.”

Gulping, she lowers her head into the crook of his shoulder and takes several deep breaths. “I kinda… don’t remember stuff,” she admits faintly. “Is that, um, normal?”

“‘Stuff’ like, just the past couple days, or…?”

“Vardaros.” Rapunzel runs her tongue along her teeth, frowning. “I remember… arguing with Cass, and then C-Caine yelling at us. Um, then things get fuzzy.”

“Ah.” Eugene relaxes, trailing his fingers up her spine and then down again. “Yeah, Sunshine, that sounds pretty normal. It might get a little better with time, but, uh, let’s see… yeah, you had a fight with Cass because she didn’t want to spend the day with us, and then when the _Cap-i-tan_ found out we weren’t gonna sit in the brig all day like good little passengers she got, ah, _cranky,_ and then…”

Some of his telling sparks in her mind, familiar if fragmented. Flickering glimpses of their shopping trip. His description of him and Lance being arrested is an empty hole in her memory, but she remembers the panicky scramble after they were gone. Then… she’d spent a long while with Cass, and then she and Varian crossed the lake, and—

Rapunzel gasps. “Oh, _no_ —Lance—is Lance—?”

_Lance, bloated and green, splayed on the deck; the terrifying Second Mate knelt beside him with one hand upon his chest, over his heart._

_She unraveled her bandages and sang, she scraped the scabs off her palms and sang, she let the blood flow and she sang, heedless of the piercing pain in her hands or the burn in her chest, she sang—_

“Yeah,” Eugene says, and her heart goes still and then resumes with a single, solid pulse of relief. “Yeah, Sunshine—I don’t know quite what you did, but the healing incantation worked for him. He’s… gonna have some scars, but—hey.”

His lips brush the crown of her head.

“You saved him,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”

## ❦

Cassandra devotes the better part of the afternoon to cleaning Moira’s saber and the jack-of-plate. The familiar routine and the pungent smell of oil soothe, and for an hour or two she doesn’t think about anything but the careful rhythm of her hands. Once both are spotless again, she hangs the jack in her berthing to air out and marches up to the main deck with the saber tucked under her arm.

Wispy clouds polish the sky into a flat grey dome. There’s a clean, wet sort of chill hanging in the air, stirred by a brisk breeze. The deck has the bright look of a fresh scrubbing, and the only person about is Renard, who offers her a tired nod from his post before the helm.

“Captain’s in, if that’s who you’re after,” he says.

“It is. Thanks.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Sleeping or out to market,” Renard says. “Food in an hour, Elis said, unless you’d rather try your luck on the local fare. Which I wouldn’t.”

“That bad?”

“Imagine a boiled brick.”

Snorting, Cassandra mutters, “I’d rather not,” and knocks on the great cabin door.

It opens with enough immediacy to confirm that Moira overheard and must have dropped whatever she was doing to anticipate the knock, and _that_ feels like stepping off a staircase expecting an extra stair and finding flat ground instead; Cassandra feels her mouth go dry, and her thoughts scatter out of their hard-won order.

“Uh,” she says, intelligently, “hi.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Moira steps away to welcome her inside. Cassandra winces as she takes in the bare boards of the deck and the wardrobe door, wrenched off its hinges by pillaging watchmen and now tucked between the edge of the wardrobe and the bulkhead—and then her gaze flicks to the rack where Moira keeps her sabers, and an involuntary moan slips past her lips. It’s empty, save the fine blade Moira carried into the city yesterday.

“Ah, _no._ ”

“Watchmen,” Moira says, sounding resigned.

She slides onto the bunk and sits with her arms folded over her knees without saying anything else, watching while Cassandra replaces her borrowed saber and hangs its scabbard next to it.

“I’m sorry,” Cassandra murmurs. “I—”

The last time she set foot in the great cabin she’d thrown what feels now like a mortifyingly _petty_ temper tantrum, and when she reaches for the calm feeling again, she can’t find it. There’s only a muddled pile of uncomfortable things wrapped around the long tally of everything she’s done wrong since she came to Alcorsīa in the first place. She swivels around to face Moira and works her jaw, not sure where to start.

The slight, apprising tilt of Moira’s head does not help.

“I- I… you’ve been amazing,” she manages. “A lot more than I really, you know, deserve—a-and I’ve been telling Raps that for two weeks but I realized I’ve never, um, not in so many words—and, and then, with the stupid—the Separatist thing—I should’ve just asked when I– instead of, you know, stewing about it for a week and making assumptions and—it’s just, you’re _so,_ um, what I really wanted to say is I’m sorry for taking you for granted I just feel like such a _mess_ all the time and you’re not so I think I just, sort of—”

“Cassandra,” Moira drawls, “one thought at a time.”

Flushing, she stammers in inarticulate distress; Moira straightens up, patting the bunk beside her with a soft, lopsided smile tugging at her mouth.

Cassandra crosses the cabin and sits.

“Try again?”

“I’m sorry for blowing up,” she says, wetting her lips. “Yesterday… at you.”

Moira sighs, long and low. “Why did you?”

“It’s… really stupid.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Her tone—of plain curiosity, untainted by accusation—fortifies, and Cassandra licks her lips again. “I… thought, because you didn’t mention it,” she says slowly, fumbling her way over each word, “that the Separatist… _agenda,_ thing, was supposed to be secret. From me. A-and then you acted like it _wasn’t_ and I was just dumb for not figuring it out.”

“And that made you mad.”

“Yes.”

Moira takes her hand, pressing her fingers into her palm and holding fast when she squeezes in return, and says, “I’m sorry. I _did_ assume you knew; I figured if you wanted to talk about it, you’d bring it up, so… when you didn’t…” She pauses, rueful. “I was trying to be sensitive.”

“Oh.”

“But you… realized,” Moira continues carefully, “and thought I hadn’t said anything because I didn’t trust you. Is that right?”

“Y– yeah, that’s. Yeah.”

“I do.” She rubs her thumb over Cassandra’s knuckles, and Cassandra bites her lip as something crumbles in her chest. “I trust you. And next time you’ve got a problem, honey, you come and _tell_ me about it. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good.”

Cassandra breathes, tracing over and over the shape of those words as they settle with a warm, uncertain weight. _I trust you._ How long has she been aching to hear someone— _anyone_ —say those words to her and _mean_ it?

It shakes loose the next piece of what she has to say, though the words still feel like a blade against her tongue. “I also… I– I can’t keep being stuck in the middle, between you and Rapunzel.”

Moira goes rigid. “Honey—”

“No, please listen—I—” She squeezes, and Moira stays, stiff but with her hand still folded in Cassandra’s. Relieved, Cassandra releases a shaky breath. “You said you’d be civil.”

“ _She_ wasn’t—”

“Did you make that promise without intending to keep it?”

“No! Cassandra—”

“Then what happened?” Cassandra asks, pitching her voice low the way she would to soothe a skittish horse. She’d always put it down to Moira’s stubborn irascibility, but that had been before Moira broke apart in Cassandra’s arms because her ship and her crew were in danger. It’s something else; some vulnerability masked in hatred. She’d like to kick herself for not realizing it earlier. “You’ve said she picked a fight, and I believe you, but how did she get so under your skin?”

A nerve throbs in Moira’s jaw. Her stiff composure fractures, and black anger bubbles through the cracks. “Oh, I don’t _know,_ ” she snarls, “maybe it’s that she treats you like _garbage._ Maybe it’s that she wants all of us to sit and hold her hand and be her shoulder to cry on while she rakes _you_ over the coals for caring that her _daddy_ killed your parents and my father and _hundreds_ of other people—m-maybe it’s that she thinks her sad childhood exempts her from acting like a gods-damned decent human being—”

Something ugly contorts her face, there and smoothed away again before Cassandra can identify it, and Moira forces out a dark little chuckle.

“—and maybe,” she mutters, in a tone with every wrinkle of anger ironed ruthlessly out of it, “I don’t like coming second to _her_ every single time there’s a crisis.”

A tremor runs through her arm, punctuated by the sharp pressure of her nails digging into Cassandra’s palm as she looks away. Cassandra leans until their shoulders touch, and they sit like that for a while.

She aches.

Every attempt she’s made so far to be _better_ inadequate; impulsive gestures adding up to nothing more than bluster. She has so many _problems,_ and an emerging talent for making them Moira’s problems too. Her despair and her anger; her nightmares. The blood on her hands. She’s relied so much on Moira just to _function,_ and given nothing in return but the bitter poison of Rapunzel’s shadow.

It isn’t fair. _She_ hasn’t been fair.

“You’re right,” Cassandra says quietly. “I can’t make her be reasonable, and I- I’m not… going to _put_ myself in the middle anymore, and I won’t try to—” She stops. Shame coagulates into a thick, unpleasant mass in her stomach. “I’m sorry.”

“…Where’s all this coming from, honey?”

“Maybe _I’m_ tired of her treating _you_ like garbage,” she says, earning herself a choked, startled laugh. “…Moira, I am… not good at this feelings… junk. But you’re not second-best, and I’m sorry for making you feel that way.”

Moira gives her a long, considering look, lips pursed like she’s caught between a smile and a doubtful frown. “You do alright, honey.”

“I really don’t.”

“ _Hmph._ Okay.”

“…Okay?”

“Cassandra.”

“ _What?_ ”

Exasperation creeps into her tone before she can stop it, and Moira smirks at her—and _stars above,_ somehow it’s a bridge crossed or a weight falling from her shoulders, and it makes the whole cabin seem lighter. Slyly, Moira says, “You know, honey, Esclavo’s thugs may’ve robbed us blind—but they missed the _real_ prize. Get up.”

She pokes Cassandra’s ribs, chasing her onto her feet with a very… _pirate-ish_ smirk that has Cassandra narrowing her eyes in suspicion.

“…What is it?”

Humming, Moira glides to her feet and slips her hand under the filigreed frame of the bunk. “You’ll see.”

“ _Moira_ –”

With a wink and a grin, Moira lifts the frame. It folds neatly against the bulkhead, revealing a tessellated wooden panel. Angular blocks of pale pinewood and rich mahogany swirl in fernlike spirals over the panel, and set in the very center is a circular plate of copper. It’s crawling with vivid verdigris, and engraved with the words _CRĒZAN CH. L. ZAMPERMIN - 1382 SL._

“…SL?”

“Sīnghohār,” Moira says absently. “It’s what Saporians call the Peaceful Era.”

_Starving Time. Cheery._

Cassandra nods, dubious. “And Ch. L. Zampermin?”

“Was probably the priest who forged the crux enchantment. She might also have been the ship’s first captain, though it’s hard to say—temple records were mostly destroyed after the conquest, and the _Zampermin_ was captured by Minkarnians about a decade before then.”

“Oh.”

“But—” Moira hums again. “—well… just watch.”

She drums her fingertips against the copper plate, and a well-oiled _click_ sounds from somewhere underneath. Pearly light sparks and feathers across the panel; the mosaic ripples as the mahogany pieces rise and the pinewoods sink. Moira twists the plate counter-clockwise and slides it towards the bulkhead, and the whole panel collapses with it, transforming into a series of vertical struts to support the bunk frame and opening a spacious compartment underneath.

 _Oh,_ Cassandra thinks, dumbfounded, _there’s the treasure._

Inside is a large pewter lockbox and a half-dozen slim wooden cases, all stamped with symbols Cassandra doesn’t recognize; there’s a thick sheaf of letters bound in twine, and a journal whose leather cover is creased and spotting with age; a small statuette formed of delicate loops and whorls of brass and gold nested around a chunk of bismuth; and something large and rectangular wrapped in a loose bundle of fine linen.

“…Huh.”

Smirking again, Moira leans down to peel away the topmost layer of linen, and Cassandra nearly swallows her own tongue.

Crimson leather cover, emblazoned with the golden Coronan sun. It’s the book burnt into her memory, the most precious document in all of Corona; the book she’d helped to steal, and never cared to see again.

Nestled in the creamy fabric is the Journal of Herz der Sonne.

She gapes. “Why—”

“Oh, your _face,_ ” Moira snickers. “So scandalized—”

“—why do you still _have that?!_ ”

Radiating innocence, Moira tucks the linen into place around the Journal and closes the panel with a shimmer of variegated wood. “So I can sell it to Rose, obviously.”

“Ro— to the _Duchess?”_

“Mm-hm.” Moira lowers the bunk and slides herself onto it; her eyes glitter as she smiles beatifically up at Cassandra. “Problem?”

Cassandra splutters. “What happened to the Separatists?!”

“Well they only needed the _maps,_ you know.”

“ _You–!_ ” Half-amused, half-exasperated, she catches Moira by the shoulder and shoves; Moira, snickering, flops easily back into the pillows and leaves Cassandra teetering, thrown off balance by the unexpected lack of resistance. She catches herself heavily against the edge of the bunk and blinks, startled.

_Oh._

Cassandra wobbles, precariously perched beside Moira with one hand on her shoulder, gripping the edge of the bunk with the other.

_She’s—_

When they’d first met Cassandra had been struck by the foxlike cunning of her smile, and the comparison still feels apt. There’s something graceful and refined but _sly_ in the prominent cut of Moira’s cheekbones, the severe angle of her jaw, the perfect slope of her nose. She’s—very _pretty,_ in the way a well-made dagger is pretty, polished and honed to a razored edge.

“—u– um.”

Blood rushes to Cassandra’s cheeks for _no reason whatsoever,_ and she bolts to her feet with her heart thumping hard.

“Rapunzel won’t be happy!” she shrills. “About– about—”

“She’s welcome to make other arrangements if she doesn’t like mine,” Moira says silkily. The bunk creaks as she rolls languidly off of it, and Cassandra twitches when Moira tucks an arm around her waist. “Relax, honey. Come have lunch with me.”

## ❦

Rapunzel inhales the clean, fresh scent of the lake and smiles. It’s a beautiful day. The polished steel of the sky transforms Lake Carca into a vast silver mirror, and the bluish stone and pale timber of Garioch’s architecture glitters under a thick glaze of frost. Her hair riffles in an icy breeze that caresses the back of her neck and soothes the smoldering heat left behind by the healing incantation.

Feeling lighter than she has in _weeks,_ she wobbles from Eugene’s arm to the starboard railing and leans over the water, letting the anguish and anxiety flake away piece by piece. The crushing desolation of her nightmare feels so silly and small in the cold daylight.

“Eugene?”

“Hm?”

“Do you believe in fate?” she asks. “Or… or destiny?”

He slouches against the railing beside her, looking thoughtful. “Well… to be honest, I don’t know. Couple years ago I would’ve said no, but… eh, maybe finding the Lost Princess of Corona by accident and getting everything I ever wanted and more in, _heh,_ the very last way I would’ve ever dreamed it could happen has… _shifted_ my opinion just a little. I think you and me were really meant to be, Sunshine.”

“That sounds like a yes.”

“Call it a maybe.” Eugene winks. “Do you?”

“I’m just… thinking about what would have happened if the black rocks came to Corona before I left the tower,” she replies, sighing. “What if I hadn’t been there to, I don’t know, stop them or answer them?”

“I think I can see where you’re going with this.”

“Maybe it _is_ fate.” Rapunzel watches her breath stream out in a long ribbon of silvery mist, wondering. “I mean, maybe that’s _why_ I was born with this magic, so I can be the one to finally reunite the sundrop and moonstone and… and _fix_ —maybe this is my destiny.”

“Maybe,” he agrees.

Biting her lip, Rapunzel tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear. “I’ve just been so caught up in trying to get Cass back that I never stopped to think about why we’re all here in the first place.” She pauses. “It’s terrifying.”

“…It is.” Eugene covers her hands with his own, and when she looks up, his eyes are warm and soft and shining with love. “But I’ll be right here with you,” he murmurs. “Every step of the way. You won’t have to face any of it alone.”

“I couldn’t do this without you,” she whispers.

“And I,” Eugene says, “wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you.”

Warmth unfurls in her chest; not the strange, sickly burn of the sundrop, but something gentle and pleasant; a radiant affection. Beaming, Rapunzel rises onto her toes, grabs him by the collar, and kisses him hard. He squeaks. His hands slip around her waist to pull her close, and her knees go weak.

 _If he proposed right now I’d say yes,_ Rapunzel thinks giddily. She’d come so close to losing him yesterday—but he’s _here_ and he’s _alright_ and _nothing_ is ever going to take him from her again. If destiny is a trail of black rocks and the moonstone awaiting her in Aphelion, there’s no one she would rather have by her side while she faces it.

“I love you, Eugene,” she breathes when she pulls away.

He cups her face in his hands and kisses her brow before murmuring, “You’re my light, Rapunzel. I love you too. And—” As he straightens up, his voice soars into his usual charmingly airy tone. “—whaddaya say we head down to the galley to eat before all the pirates get back, huh?”

“I think that sounds like a great idea!”

She has, she thinks as she takes his arm and they descend into the ship’s warm interior again, been approaching this all wrong. Cassandra’s abandonment and fall into darkness _hurts_ like a knife slipped between her ribs, but Rapunzel can’t afford to lose herself in that pain again.

Because it isn’t just about saving Cass.

The fate of her kingdom—of the whole _world_ —hangs in the balance.

The pieces tumble and fit together in a flash, as if they had been waiting all along for Rapunzel to step back and examine them with a clearer eye. Zhan Tiri needs the sundrop and moonstone to escape. Sugracha and Sirin are his disciples. Caine _knows_ Sirin, and the two of them are working together to manipulate Cass…

Caine had prevented them from burning down Zhan Tiri’s tree.

Caine had sunk her claws into Rapunzel’s best friend.

Caine invited them all onto her ship—an offer that had seemed so altruistic at the time, so _generous,_ and one that also left them all at her mercy.

 _She’s not just a Separatist,_ Rapunzel realizes, dizzy with horror. _She’s working for Zhan Tiri. I bet she’s planning to take the moonstone herself so she can use it to free him._

And Cass, _poor_ Cass—

 _I’ll save her,_ Rapunzel vows. No matter what evil schemes Caine enacts, she’ll find a way to foil them and wake Cassandra to the horrible truth of what her new “friend” truly is. She’ll destroy the moonstone before Caine can get her hands on it.

Determination fires in her chest, and Rapunzel lifts her chin as she marches into the galley.

“—Remember how she ended,” Lance is saying. He’s seated at one end of the table, Varian at his elbow. Sitheach lounges on his other side, head canted as he listens; and at the other end, the helmsman Renard is engrossed in a game of cards with a tall, slender, elegant-looking woman Rapunzel’s never seen before. Platters of light food—kelp chips, apple chips, the pickled cockles and wrinkly dried berries all the Saporians seem so fond of, toast and jam—spread over the table, and there’s a greasy sizzle coming from Elis’s skillet in the back of the galley.

“Interesting,” Sitheach says, not sounding interested at all. “Anything else?”

“Nah, that—”

“ _Lance!_ ” Rapunzel squeals, every dire thought cut down by the sheer overwhelming relief of _seeing_ with her own eyes that he’s alright. “You’re alive!”

She darts across the galley to throw her arms around his shoulders, and he chuckles, patting hers in turn. “Seems that way, thanks to you and Sitheach. Nice to see you’re feeling better, too, Princess.”

“Thanks!”

“But what does that _mean?_ ” Varian asks impatiently. Rapunzel gives him a fond smile over the top of Lance’s head; there’s a journal propped open next to his plate of half-eaten toast, and though the page is already covered in an indecipherable, scribbly shorthand, Varian twiddles his pen like he’s itching to add more. “Who’s this Marchach person? What happened to her?”

“She was a _cháthādozhar_ who broke her vows and swore service to the Lady,” Sitheach replies.

“The Lady being—?”

“Zhan Tiri, yes.”

Rapunzel’s stomach falls like a stone through water; humming, Varian nods and scrawls another note, which only accelerates her dismay. _He’s supposed to be translating Demanitus’s notes on the sundrop and moonstone. Why is he talking about Zhan Tiri with Saporian sorcerers?_

“And _cháthā—”_

“Let’s not discuss demons over lunch!” Rapunzel interjects. Varian starts, and Sitheach glances at her, flatly unimpressed. “Wouldn’t want to spoil any appetites by talking about all the horrible, _evil_ things they do, right, Varian?”

He flushes.

And the woman at the other end of the table snorts and says, “Oh, real charmer you’ve got there, Rider.”

Rapunzel blinks, startled to find herself the subject of the stranger’s scrutiny. Her eyes are deep indigo, like the last gasp of blue before the night sky surrenders to blackness, and all the more striking for the exquisite porcelain of her complexion. She’s beautiful.

But rude.

“Excuse me?” Rapunzel asks.

“Uhm—Sunshine, this… is—”

“Stalyan Esclavo,” the woman says, directing a slanting smile over the fan of her cards. “And you’re the Princess. A pleasure. Nice to meet Rider’s new fling.”

“ _Fling?_ ”

“Stalyan,” Eugene hisses through the frozen rictus of his smile, “come on—”

“Oh, fires above, I can’t watch,” Lance mutters.

Stalyan props her elbows on the table with a gusty sigh as she tosses a card down in front of Renard, who scowls. “ _Brelce._ You’re so _young._ Rider, she’s a _baby_ —”

“I’m eighteen!”

“It isn’t like that—”

“Sure it isn’t.” Stalyan tosses her head like a nervous horse, shaking her thick fall of dark auburn hair over her shoulder, and pins Rapunzel with a look she can’t decipher. Pitying, almost. Tired. “Look, Blondie, I _get it._ Obviously.” She rolls her eyes. “But take it from someone who learned this the hard way? You can do better than _him._ ”

Her chin tilts in Eugene’s direction as she flicks another card down, and something curdles in Rapunzel’s midriff. It’s an ugly, unpleasant feeling, a crawling discomfort she can’t name.

“Stalyan,” Eugene sighs.

“You two… you—know each other?”

“Stalyan is Eugene’s ex,” Lance says bluntly.

“Oh, way to sugarcoat it, _Mr. Tact!_ ”

“Ex?!”

“Fiancée,” Stalyan says, her voice cooling several degrees, “specifically.”

_Fiancée._

That can’t be right. Rapunzel knows Eugene has… been with other women before, but she’d assumed—and he’d never indicated to the contrary—that those had been passing fancies, fleeting affairs akin to his fractured partnership with the Stabbington brothers.

But not this. Nothing like _this._

He’d been _in love_ with Stalyan? He’d wanted to _marry_ her?

Her throat constricts. Images flash through her mind of Eugene on one knee, hope shining in his eyes and a ring cradled in his palm—asking _Stalyan_ to grow happy and old with him; of Stalyan beaming and saying _yes, yes!_ and Stalyan draped in golden finery with lilacs in her hair, a thousand times lovelier and daintier than Rapunzel could ever hope to be; of Eugene and Stalyan intertwined—

_No!_

Jealousy roars out of her crumpled lungs and lacerates her guts with shards of ice; she’s dizzy with it, _sick_ with it, and it drips out of her in a hateful glare as she wraps her arms around Eugene’s shoulders. “ _Oh,_ ” Rapunzel says, gritting her teeth. “I didn’t– I didn’t know you were engaged. Eugene. _Ha-ha isn’t that funny—_ ”

“It was a long time ago, Sunshine. Eight years. We were just kids, you know, really I think ‘engaged’ isn’t the best, ah, most accurate term… for… it. Eh-heh. You know? Wouldn’t you say, Stalyan?”

“You asked me to marry you,” Stalyan answers serenely. “I said yes. We were more engaged than you two are.”

“Well that was then!” Rapunzel snaps. “And– and for your information Eugene and I are _getting married,_ so—so you can just—move along, please!”

Stalyan gazes at her, impassive, and lowers a third card onto the table in a slow, deliberate way, as if to say she won’t budge no matter how hard Rapunzel tries to dislodge her—

“Voiikopel!” Elis cries. He slams a tray onto the table with a rattle that makes everybody jump, and Rapunzel looks up into a pleasant, toothy grin. “It is steamed cabbage with mincemeat and onions, like sausage, yes? I think it is time for eating something other than each other’s throats!”

Rapunzel slinks onto the bench beside Eugene while Elis doles out servings of the voiikopel, which do indeed look like squat, sallow sausages. Stilted silence follows the cook’s loud pronouncement, and she sucks in a jittery breath and tries to recapture the sense of fiery optimism that had accompanied her into the galley. Eugene is _her_ boyfriend, and no amount of Stalyan sitting there radiating confidence with her _ridiculous_ name and self-satisfied smile can change that.

“So,” Eugene says, clearing his throat, “uh, Lance, buddy, how’s the arm?”

Lance, mouth full of voiikopel, makes an indecipherable but positive-sounding noise before he swallows, bobbing his head. “Same as it was this morning. Still… eh.”

He lifts his right hand, and Rapunzel gasps.

Greenish-yellow blotches crawl over his knuckles and splatter down to his shirtsleeve. The discolored patches have a dry, flaky texture reminiscent of Pascal’s old skins when he’s just beginning to shed.

 _Some scars,_ Eugene had said. But she hadn’t realized—the sundrop normally smoothed wounds over without a trace—

“Why didn’t that get healed?” Varian chirps. “I mean, _hn,_ the sundrop was powerful enough to not just neutralize kai venom but also reverse the damage to the internal organs, right? So why not… _that?_ ”

“‘Cause there’s gotta be scars to prove how tough I am,” Lance says, winking.

“Har har.”

“I have several theories,” Sitheach drones. “Foremost among them the wight-bindings, which proved rather more durable than I had anticipated. True healing is antithetical to my arts, and given two oppugnant forces of magic the tendency is for an erosion of both—that is not insurmountable with due preparation, but in even the idealest circumstances the result is often suboptimal…”

The lecture carries on like that for several minutes, with Varian scratching away at his journal and Lance sitting bemused between them; Stalyan resumes her card game with Renard and beats him soundly in the time it takes Varian to fill a single page; and Rapunzel picks at her own plate, itchy all over with inadequacy.

Then the galley door clatters open, and Cassandra comes in arm-in-arm with Moira Caine, and Rapunzel feels something inside herself _snap_ like a rotten twig.

_Jealousy._

_That’s_ the hideous feeling throbbing in her veins, the tearing sensation in her chest, the urge to leap to her feet and _rip_ Caine’s hands away from Cass. Dredged to the surface and cracked wide open by the horrid revelation of _Stalyan,_ it shrieks now with such rage that it drowns Cassandra’s greeting and all she can do is stare in mute, helpless agony as her best friend drops onto the bench at the head of the table—next to _Caine,_ whose gaze wanders across the table until her eyes meet Rapunzel’s.

The pirate smirks. She extricates her arm from Cassandra’s and drapes it around Cassandra’s shoulders instead, leaning in close to murmur something in harsh Saporian that makes Cass choke on a laugh and grin, ducking her head and biting her lip, and _click_ goes another piece of the puzzle.

 _That_ was what Caine had done to make Cass steal the Journal of Herz der Sonne.

They’re _together._ Caine _seduced_ her.

Why hadn’t she seen it before? Even on the Day of Hearts, Caine hadn’t taken her hands off Cass for even one second, and—of course, _of course_ they’d decided to steal the Journal during the most romantic of Corona’s holidays!

_Oh, Cass, why?_

Revulsion and anguish and jealousy skewer her as her traitorous mind stitches images together, an unsightly alloy of observations and elaborations. Rapunzel doesn’t realize she’s moaned aloud until Eugene touches her back and Cass glances quizzically at her and says, “You okay, Raps?”

“Just– just—headache,” Rapunzel says quickly.

Cassandra’s expression melts into sympathy, and a familiar pang of affection and loss pierces the cyclone of jealousy eating her alive—and _click_ goes another piece.

 _Why_ her, _and not me?_

She forgets how to breathe for a moment. Eugene’s warm hand slides up, pausing to squeeze the back of her neck, and then cards into her hair to massage gently at her scalp, and Rapunzel sits rigidly through it all, eyes wide with shock.

 _I’m in love with Cassandra,_ she thinks. _I’m… in love… with Cassandra._

Panic streaks like lightning across the swirling black clouds of jealousy. She’s in love with Cassandra just like she’s in love with Eugene, except Cass doesn’t love her back and Cass is enthralled by one of Zhan Tiri’s servants and if Rapunzel can’t pry her away and wake her to the danger they’re all in, the whole world might be at stake.

And she has no idea what to do.


End file.
